


All This (and Heaven Too)

by GaryOldman



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, Highschool AU, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Old Friends, Seriously the whole thing is gay panic, Slow Burn, and I love it, big gay confusion, definitely a happy ending though obviously, it's all ineffable, some mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryOldman/pseuds/GaryOldman
Summary: "By the time first class had ended, Crowley had learnt two things. The first: Philosophy and Ancient Religion managed to tread the line between being a doss-subject and totally impossible to wrap your head around. The second: Aziraphale remembered him. "Crowley's first day at a new college brings with it someone he never thought he'd see again.-----Highschool AU Ineffable HusbandsNow including a bonus chapter!





	1. I Want to Break Free

**Author's Note:**

> First fic on AO3, but this was a case of I wanted to read it so had to write it. Please do let me know if you enjoyed it!

Crowley dropped the sunglasses just down the crook of his nose and stared demurely at the building. The sign read: The London Academy of Sciences and the Arts, or at least it had once upon a time before some Banksy-wannabe armed with an idea and a can of green spray-paint had amended the final word to farts. It was the kind of low-level idiocy people always seemed to be accusing him of.

The building itself was fine, if not completely see through in the way that screamed too much money. Crowley was familiar with the concept - he wasn’t a stranger to a scholarship which meant he also wasn’t a stranger to the kind of people who paid to attend schools like this. Leaning against the wall of the Tesco Express opposite the Academy, he watched them all: dead-eyed staff forcing themselves inside, wide eyed girls all with inexplicably identical brunette ponytails that screamed ‘drama student’, boys in shirts that were under-washed and overworn declaring their love for every kind of alternative tv show or video game out there. 

I Want to Break Free by Queen blasted through his earbuds as he checked the time on his phone. 8:44. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the wall and crossed the road in the reckless way only Londoners can survive. 

His first class of the day (and term) was Philosophy and Ancient Religions in the humanities wing. He had a vague idea of direction from orientation, and was all ready to head towards the lift when a figure stepped in front of him, mouthing something. In his ears, Freddie Mercury droned. 

“Excuse me?” Crowley asked, unable to stop the smirk on his face as he removed the earbuds with a flourish. 

“Can I see some ID, please?” Crowley looked him down. A timid looking kind of guy for a security guard. He could definitely have some fun with this.

“Just curious,” he started. “But why aren’t you asking anyone else for ID?” 

The guard flushed instantly and began to stutter something which probably would have sounded ridiculous even if he’d managed to spit it out. Crowley knew, of course he did. Here he was, all in black from sunglasses to combat boots surrounded by people who were the human embodiment of the colour beige. 

Done with his fun, he grabbed his ID, flashed the guard the picture (he hated that picture - hadn’t been allowed to wear sunglasses for it, which was basically a hate crime) and waltzed off, already fashionably late for lesson number one.  
——————

Aziraphale sat towards the front of the classroom, but just off to the side where he was free to gaze out of the window if the urge settled over him. Philosophy and Ancient Religion wasn’t exactly an easy subject, as such, but considering his history he thought he could spare a bit of his attention to the rest of the world. 

He was so taken by watching the miracle of nature (two pigeons battling to share a perch outside his window) that he hadn’t even noticed the rest of the class arrive. In fact, Mr Rolled-Up-Sleeves was already introducing himself as Mr Lawson, and going over the key points of the first terms’ coursework. 

They were ten minutes into a lecture on the importance of actually doing the reading (which Aziraphale had already finished for the term) when the classroom door opened. Standing in the doorway looking as happy to be there as the pigeon who had settled for a different perch, was Anthony. 

“Er, sorry I’m late,” he said, not sounding very sorry at all. He was wearing sunglasses, in a classroom, and jeans skinnier than Aziraphale had ever seen on a human being. Aziraphale certainly wasn’t the only person noticing him - a silence followed by hissing whispers followed his arrival instantly.

“Got lost, did you? No worries, just don’t let it happen again,” Mr Lawson said, gesturing the newcomer to sit. “Now, what do you all think of Kant?” 

Except Aziraphale (who had a lot of opinions on Emmanuel Kant, thank you very much) couldn’t possibly consider raising a hand to say anything. Anthony Crowley was stalking his way right towards him. At first he looked wholly unimpressed, more interested in turning his music off and wrapping the headphones delicately into a neat knot than having any shame in his lateness. Then his sunglasses slipped just past his nose, and his eyes met Aziraphale’s. 

There was a second of recognition and then confusion. Aziraphale’s ears burned red, and he was totally aware that he was just gawking at this very fascinating boy who he may in fact have been best friends with years and years ago, who was in turn staring back at him and actually cocking a single eyebrow. 

“Aziraphale?” Mr Lawson said. From the sound of his tone, it was not the first time he had spoken. 

“Yes sir?” 

“Thoughts on Kant?” Aziraphale dropped his thoughts from Crowley, who had finally managed to settle into a seat just behind his own, and coughed. 

“Oh of course. Jolly interesting read, actually sir,” Aziraphale started, glad that of all things he had been asked, at least he had an answer to this. Had someone asked him why his ears were red and why he felt like he was seeing a ghost, he wouldn’t have even been able to explain it to himself, never mind them. “The problem with Kant is that he’s a very difficult person to argue with, and yet everything he says is disagreeable to me,” 

As he spoke, he grew an immediate empathy for all the dear young girls possessed by demons in those awful horror films people were always watching: his neck seemed to have grown a mind of its own and was urging his head to just take a sneak peek behind him at the boy. It wasn’t necessarily Anthony - last he’d heard of his childhood best friend, he was in some special school for misbehaving boys and had face tattoos - and he had to know. 

In the greatest feat of self control ever exhibited by a human being, Aziraphale waited fifteen minutes into the class to turn, doing so only when he could pass it off as some kind of stretch. Just a bit of a sore neck, you know how it is - he would say if questioned. Mr Lawson was preparing a clip on the screen, showing as much promise for a career in technology as every other teacher as he struggled with the youtube link. It was a perfectly normal time to stretch (or at least it would have been if he hadn’t been actively planning the whole thing). 

He wasn’t sure why he felt so odd about this. Anthony Crowley, the Crowley he knew, had been a nice kid. Of course, that had evidently changed at some point after their brief stint at friendship had passed, but neither of them had expressed any particular ill-will. Just a growing apart of people, which is fine when you’re ten and one of you is more interested in playing football with the boys and one of you just wants to read up on the basics of existentialism. 

Mr Lawson was so close with the clip now - only second away from being able to skip the ad - it was now or never. He turned, adding a bit of a false-yawn into the movement to really sell it. People had been yawning since the class had started twenty minutes ago. He definitely shouldn’t have earned anyone’s attention. 

But there it was - that eyebrow, raised discreetly over the blackness of the sunglasses, totally invisible to everyone else. Anthony Crowley, he was certain it was him now, though what happened to the face tattoos he’d never know, was staring at him as though he knew exactly what he was doing.

————

 

By the time first class had ended, Crowley had learnt two things. The first: Philosophy and Ancient Religion managed to tread the line between being a doss-subject and totally impossible to wrap your head around. The second: Aziraphale remembered him. 

When he threw the classroom door open, he’d been expecting the usual ‘what is he doing here?’ attitude that the whole college seemed to instil in every student he came across, but he hadn’t anticipated recognition. But there he was, one minute staring out the window with the same far-away look he’d always had as a kid, and the next staring directly at Crowley as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. 

Of course he recognised him instantly. There aren’t too many seventeen year olds with golden hair, golden skin, wearing a loose fitting shirt and an honest to god waistcoat to their first day of college. He hadn’t changed a bit, but there was something different about him. Maybe it was the blushing red ears as Crowley stared him down, challenging him to say something. 

Any of the others would say something, he knew that. Gabe, Michael, Urie - they’d have thrown their self-righteous entitled hands right up and said that they simply couldn’t be expected to be in a room with him, but Aziraphale had never really been like them. He’d been too busy with his books to care to gossip and politics. 

Which is why it surprised Crowley to no end when, after fidgeting something chronic for ten minutes, the boy threw him arms back in an exaggerated attempt at a yawn and locked his gaze immediately on him. Crowley shot him one of his favourite ‘what are you going to do about this’ looks, causing another distractingly red blush on the other boys’ ears before he twisted back towards Mr Whatever. 

Perhaps his struggle to understand anything Kant was talking about in terms of morality was something to do with the distraction sat nervously bouncing his foot just one row ahead of him, but it could very easily be something about Kant’s total lack of human compassion. 

When the bell chimed, signalling the end of class and the beginning of his trek to the Arts building, Crowley was acutely aware that he should walk away, fast as he could. Sticking around to talk to someone from St Michael’s Trinity, never mind someone who actually knew him and would likely know all manner of rumours regarding his expulsion, would bring no good. The moment word got out that he was here, it would bring Gabe and everyone down on him instantly. 

And yet…

“There’s a cafeteria downstairs, you know?” he found himself saying, hanging back to catch Aziraphale leaving. The other boy, for all of his nervous ticking in class was staring at him still and dumbfounded now.

“Excuse me?” 

“You were yawning a lot. Thought you might need a coffee or something,” Crowley couldn’t stop himself from grinning at the flustered look of indigence that seemed to take over the other boy’s face. 

“I…” he stuttered before remembering himself. “Apologies, I just wanted to make sure it was you,”

“Me?” Crowley droned, unfairly playing Aziraphale’s manners against him. “And who am I?”

“Anthony, really. It will take more than a pair of sunglasses to disguise yourself from me,” Aziraphale said with a surge of confidence he hadn’t been expecting. Crowley didn’t quite know what to say, so he kept walking alongside Aziraphale in silence. “You’re looking well,” 

“You’re still talking like one of the nuns,” Crowley countered. “It’s Crowley, now. No Anthony,” 

“Well if you’re certain,” Azriaphale said politely. “What are you-”

“Doing here?” Crowley finished for him. “God has no domain over the London Academy of Sciences and the Arts, Angel. I am free to tread this hallowed ground,” 

Aziraphale choked, as though he was struggling to decide what to have a problem with first. 

“Angel?” he decided on finally. Crowley merely shrugged in response. “No, my dear I simply meant to ask what class you’re in next?” 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s watch (analogue, tan leather strap, very him) which read 10:06 - he was going to be late. Again. 

“I’m in Fine Art,” he answered. “Down in the Arts Building,” 

“Of course, you were always a wonderful artist,” Aziraphale said kindly, his face serene until a blush started creeping in. “That is to say you’re going to be late,” 

“Well then I had better get going, hadn’t I, Angel?” Crowley smirked, heading off down the steps, taking two at a time and not waiting for a response that Aziraphale seemed too flustered to give.


	2. Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A picnic, a panic, and a tube ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the responses on the last chapter! Couldn't be bothered waiting to post this one, so here's another chapter. Comments make my life.

Aziraphale had been off his game all day. As if seeing Crowley hadn’t been shock to the system enough, he’d come away from their exchange feeling like the other boy knew something that he himself wasn’t privy to. English Literature wasn’t even enough to distract him, and he barely stuttered out his basic Latin after that, so by the time he got to lunch he was quite honestly frazzled. 

It didn’t help that Gabe wanted to talk to him. 

“Azi!” he said, greeting him with a smile that was closer to a threat than reassuring. Aziraphale hated the nickname but smiled pleasantly back. “How was your summer?” 

“Wonderful, thank you,” he answered with an honest smile. “I spent two months volunteering in a food bank. Nothing too much, but teaching people how to make the most of their donations, you know?” 

Gabe did not know. As part of his Duke of Edinburgh, Gabe had been instructed to do volunteer work, and had instead written an essay on the futility of such things, which their Religious Studies teacher had found so thoroughly researched she submitted it to several essay competitions. It had won three of them. 

“Great to hear,” he said in a way that insinuated he didn’t listen to a word. Instead he threw an arm around Aziraphale, who was hoping to grab a bit of fresh air with his lunch, and veered him straight for a table currently housing Michael and Urie amongst others. “Listen, rumour has it that our old friend Anthony Crowley is skulking around here somewhere. Heard anything about that?”

Aziraphale had no idea what possessed him to do the following, but if quizzed on it later would have insisted he hadn’t been a hundred percent sure it even was Crowley. It definitely had nothing to do with his distracted brain - no, that could be blamed on the first day of term. And the heat. Utterly unmanageable working conditions, if you asked him.

“Oh no, hadn’t heard that. These facilities though - quite something, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, sure. Listen, why don’t you keep an eye out for old AJ and let us know if you hear anything?” Aziraphale found himself nodding, and veering his trajectory away from the table surrounded by the old St Michael’s Trinity boys and towards the exit. He dumped the tray on the pile of the rest of them and gathered his sandwich into his bag. 

One of the things that had been most thrilling to Aziraphale about his new college was the freedom. No longer were they confined to the walled campus of St Michael’s Trinity listening to the world continue around him. Now he was free to explore the city. There was a park just around the corner from the college - a little out of the way for workers, a little seedy for tourists, and a little exposed for perverts. It was perfect. 

Aziraphale settled onto bench off to the corner of the park and dug out a book from his bag. It was some light translation work he was doing for a friend of his dad’s who didn’t speak Arabic. Nothing to steady the mind quite like two languages running simultaneously. His sandwich lay half eaten and forgotten and his handwriting became more and more scratchy as the words came easier to him. It was satisfying work.

“Well fancy this,” an all too familiar voice said. “The Angel is skipping class,”

Aziraphale looked up, and there he was: Crowley, still dressed head to toe in black and somehow not breaking a sweat despite the heat. Aziraphale had already had to adjust his waistcoat twice. 

“I am not skipping class,” he argued haughtily, hoping to brush over a nickname that was equal parts insulting and confusing. “I’m having lunch,” he gestured to his half eaten sandwich as proof. The salad was wilting at the edges.

“Fantastic,” Crowley said lazily as he settled in beside Aziraphale. “How can I get two hour lunches then?” 

“What are you talking about?” he returned his gaze to his book, but suddenly the words were much less compelling than they had been two minutes ago. 

“It’s 2:30, Angel,” Crowley grinned. 

Aziraphale jumped out of his skin. He’d missed a lesson and a half already. Some kind of horror must have shown on his face because Crowley’s grin faded slightly into something a bit softer. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly. “They won’t even mention it unless you go below 70% attendance. What’s this?” Crowley gestured to the book.

“Translation work. Has anyone ever told you that you’re very hard to keep up with?”

At this, Crowley laughed so hard he bared his teeth like a wild animal. Aziraphale, having meant the comment completely earnestly, couldn’t see what was so funny, but wasn’t entirely upset at having made Anthony laugh. It felt a bit like old times, sitting in the Crowley living room discussing their teachers and schoolmates. 

“You haven’t changed,” Aziraphale found himself saying, unable to keep the wistfulness out of his tone. It was a mistake - Crowley instantly stopped smiling and the lightness that laughter had brought to his face vanished. 

“Yes, well. Once a bad egg, always a bad egg I suppose,” he stiffened.

“No, that’s-” Aziraphale started, but Crowley was already past it. 

“So what did they tell you?” he cut in. Aziraphale looked at him blankly. 

“I don’t know…” 

“Aziraphale, you have never been a good liar,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Why did they say I was expelled?” 

Aziraphale shifted guiltily in his seat under the intensity of Crowley’s tone. This definitely didn’t feel like his place.

“So you were expelled then,” he said finally. “I always wondered if that was just a rumour, and that you’d simply left without saying a word,” 

Aziraphale couldn’t even bring himself to look at the other boy then. His mind was on the fourteen year old Aziraphale, and how stung he had been to find out that Anthony had picked up and left. Of course he heard the rumours, and of course some of them could have explained it all. Either way, there hadn’t been a goodbye. 

“Az-”

“The rumours were quite ridiculous, actually. I always thought you’d quite like them,” it was his turn to cut in now.

“Well?” 

“The most prevalent theory was arson. They said you tried to burn down the chapel of all things. I think that’s the one most people believed. Then there was talk of you attempted a demon summoning in the quad, ran off with a nun, exposed the antichrist to this world, ermm…” Aziraphale paused trying to remember the rest of them. 

“Is that it?” Crowley said, his tone guarded. Aziraphale turned to look at him, but read nothing on his face - not with his eyes hiding behind those sunglasses. 

“I-”

“Aziraphale,” 

“There were some rumours that were a tad more personal, I believe,” he turned away from Crowley now, ears flaring red again. 

“Go on,” 

“They said you were caught, erm, fraternising with a student from the local comprehensive. A - that is to say a male student,” 

A deep tension bubbled in Aziraphale. He wasn’t a stranger to this feeling. It had been an acquaintance (unacknowledged but there all the same) for years now, rearing its ugly head at times like this. Easily enough ignored, until you sat still for too long, or entered into discussions like this. 

He didn’t realise that he was holding his breath in anticipation of a response, until he got one.

“They were right,” Crowley said, not in a whisper but at the depths of his voice.

Aziraphale looked at him then - nothing obvious he hoped; just a sideways glance. What surprised him was seeing the other boy doing the exact same thing past dark lashes and the arms of his sunglasses. He didn’t look ashamed, Aziraphale noticed with a start. At most he looked like a snake ready to strike if he made the wrong move. But not embarrassed. 

“I wonder which was more difficult for them - the homophobia or the snobbery,” 

Whatever Crowley had been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. His jaw dropped slack, before the humour hit him and his entire face lit up. It took a full two minutes of giggles before Crowley seemed to even gasp for air. 

“The snobbery, I’m sure. Local comprehensive, how utterly depraved,” The tension had shifted from him now, and he seemed to be sprawling on the old bench as though it was a luxurious french sofa, utterly at ease with himself. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice how lovely he really looked. More comfortable than he’d been before. “You know, I may not have changed but you certainly have,” 

“Me? No, same old Aziraphale here,” he insisted, folding in on himself as the attention switched.

“Oh wonderful stuff, Azi,” a voice cawed from across the park. “You found him,”

Aziraphale’s gaze jumped up and fell on Gabe. He was standing, looking nothing less than a miniature businessman, flanked by the usual gang. Beside him, Crowley shifted. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to shoot a look which would communicate something along the lines of ‘sorry about them, I’m not with them, not really. Wasn’t even looking for you - I know you were never their biggest fan. Really, very sorry’, but instead he shot Gabe a watered down smile. He wanted to kick himself for it. 

“Oh, erm, yes. Well I think-” but no one really cared what he thought. Gabe had already turned on Crowley who was doing a very good impression of a person who hadn’t even noticed the presence of the newcomers. 

“Didn’t realise they let your kind into this school, Anthony,” Gabe said through the widest grin he’d ever seen. If Aziraphale hadn’t known Gabe since early childhood he would have guessed the boy was built in some kind of factory for banking interns. As it was, the sheer perfection of Gabe’s face had always been more frightening than anything else and his unwavering grin doubled that. 

“Yes well, every school has an arsonist quota to fill,” Crowley said, his voice measured. Aziraphale turned to see him now and he was sprawling quite the same as before, but every inch of his body looked ready to strike. In his hand he was spinning a small zippo lighter, throwing the lid off occasionally to admire the fire. “Anyway, this little shindig has been suitably hellish so I think I’m going to go. Big date, you know. Lots of very good looking boys in this part of town. Toodles,” 

And with that he sauntered off, though not without blowing a knowing little kiss to Gabe who’s jaw seemed to clench hard enough that Aziraphale worried his teeth might shatter. Aziraphale stared past them and right at Crowley, wondering what it must feel like to be so certain of ones self. 

In the absence of their intended target, all attention turned to Aziraphale. 

“Azi,” Gabe said with that tone of his. Aziraphale’s attention snapped back to reality. “Probably best you don’t go having any more picnics with Anthony. We are representatives of St Michael’s Trinity, even now, and we really wouldn’t want anyone getting the… wrong ideas,” 

“Quite right,” Aziraphale stuttered, nodding in agreement. But he wasn’t really listening - he was too busy wondering what Crowley had meant when he said he had changed.

——————

The next few days were so uneventful Crowley barely remembered them. He arrived for classes, shot a dirty look at the security guard, paid the minimal attention in most classes, and if he was lucky, he was able to go down to the Art Building for an hour or so after class to make full use of the studios. Part of his scholarship meant that he was allowed access, so there was no issues with that. The only thing that had been of mild annoyance were Gabe and the Trinity Boys. 

Of course, not all of the Trinity Boys were as Crowley expected. Aziraphale had been weird, certainly, but not rude. He wasn’t thrilled with how they’d left their conversation in the park, but in Philosophy the next day he’d been fine; cordial even. If Crowley didn’t know what they taught at St Michael’s Trinity so intimately he might even think that Aziraphale didn’t have a problem with the whole gay thing. But he did know, so he chalked it up to good old fashioned Christian friendliness. 

Which was better by far than holy retribution, if not more difficult to navigate. 

Friday evening found Crowley in the studio. He’d been working on some pieces based on Caravaggio’s style - this one was an angel staring out over a modern metropolis: golden hair, big blue eyes. The lighting was particularly interesting to Crowley, speckled afternoon light peeking through the trees. Divine. 

There was something off about the whole thing though. The eyes, he suspected. No matter how much he tweaked or touched up the colour it wasn’t coming out properly on the canvas, and it was driving him up the wall. He was seconds away from shouting at the paint until it put itself in line and did what he needed it to do, which was generally the point he realised he needed to chill. Throwing down his brush, Crowley stretched and checked his phone.

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen was crooning in his ears and his phone declared it to be 8:52pm. The building closed at 9. No wonder he was struggling to do anything - he’d been locked up for five hours. Very keen to not be locked inside the Arts Building with no food or escape, he threw his unwashed brushes in the sink (someone else’s problem now) and chucked the canvas under his arm. He’d finish it tomorrow.

Whether it was Freddie Mercury, the dimly lit corridor, or just his own carelessness, Crowley didn’t know, but he quickly found himself walking straight into something. 

“Oops-a-daisy,” the something said. Of course it did, because it was quickly apparent to Crowley that he’d walked head first into Aziraphale. “Oh, hello,”

Aziraphale looked startled at first, but not cross. Only, when he spotted that it was Crowley knocking into him his face lit up like a Christmas tree. Crowley didn’t know what to do about the flipping sensation in his stomach, so he did what he did best. 

“Watch where you’re going,” he said meanly, ignoring the fact that he had been the one to walk into Aziraphale and not the other way around. Aziraphale, for his credit, brushed it off.

“No bloodshed, it’s all fine,” he smiled softly. “You’re here late,” 

“Yes, and if you don’t get moving we’re both going to be locked in here until morning,” he grimaced, wishing the part of his mind doing mental backflips about the thought would shut up. 

“Quite right,” Aziraphale nodded, gathering the bag he had on the floor and following in Crowley’s wake. “So, what brings you here so late?”

“Demon summoning,” Crowley said. It only took a moment for the humour to register with his companion who (following a very un-subtle gaze around at their entirely empty surroundings) let out a small chuckle.

“Oh yes, of course. Silly me, that’s the obvious explanation,”

“What’s in the bag?” Crowley flipped the conversation back around. Aziraphale was already aware that he did this - he’d as good as called him out on it in the park that day, but somehow that just made the game more fun.

“Oh, I-” Aziraphale flustered so easily. Crowley tried to remember if he’d always been this way or if it was a new development. “It’s really nothing,”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he said looking down at the very full Tesco bag. “Doesn’t smell like nothing,” 

“Well, if you must know I’ve been doing a little extra curricular cooking,” 

“Cooking?”

“Yes, see it’s nothing,” 

“If it’s nothing why do you look so guilty?” Aziraphale looked as though he was ready to argue the point further, but something in him snapped and the argument died before it had hit his lips. 

“Well, cooking isn’t really something a young man should bother himself with. Not when he could be focusing on things like Latin and Ancient Religions. So I have to cook here in secret. Not guilty really, but just indulging in food a little more tempting than usual,” 

“You’re taking Latin as well?” Crowley hissed with laughter, ignoring the rest of the cry for help for this one. “What are your hopes for your future, Angel?” 

“I plan on becoming a minister for the community,” Aziraphale said stiffly. 

They reached the foyer, and Crowley shot a thanks to the security guard who was just readying himself to lock up. It was a different guy from the morning shift - he hadn’t wronged Crowley by asking for ID so he was fine. 

“I said your hopes, not your plans,” he quipped lazily as he held the door open for Aziraphale.

That scuppered Aziraphale. Crowley saw that as a major success - the other boy was much too astute for his own good, and making him fluster was quite the achievement, though completely easy. Crowley was also starting to get used to that blush up his cheeks. 

“I- well - you -” 

“It’s fine. You don’t need to answer to me, Angel,” Crowley shrugged. “You heading for the tube?” Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley led the way. 

The streets at this time were as quiet as they ever would be in London, getting to that point of the year where it was just cold enough at this time of the night for a jacket. Crowley barely registered anyone else being around, but all of a sudden he found this left hand side unaccompanied. He span on his heel to see Aziraphale chatting with someone on the side of the road. 

“Oh no, please. I insist,” he was saying. Crowley looked over and saw him handing the contents of the Tesco bag to the homeless gentleman sat outside the tube station. “They should last a good few days too, so please do enjoy them,”

Crowley watched this go down with a curious interest. Of all their talk of helping others, he’d never heard of or seen any of the other Trinity Boys actually doing so, and here was Aziraphale helping just because. 

By the time Aziraphale caught up to him, he’d managed to school his features back to bored impatience. Of course, if he’d really been bored he would have just walked off without a goodbye, but Aziraphale wasn’t to know that. They both tapped their Oyster cards against the turnstile and headed down towards the escalator. Usually Crowley would be walking past everyone stood to the right with deathly glares, but something kept him beside Aziraphale. 

Crowley was so much taller than Aziraphale that even a step down, they were nearly eye to eye. 

“So how was the big date?” his companion asked, breaking the silence between them. Crowley blinked twice, before having any idea what he was talking about. 

“Oh, yeah that. That may or may not have been a slight fib. Say, where does your God stand when it comes to lying about homosexuality? Lying’s bad, obviously. Homosexuality, also a no-no. But what if you’re lying about homosexuality - is that better than the sum of its parts or doubly wicked?” 

Aziraphale considered him for a while. Longer than he really should have. Crowley was merely deflecting, not really expecting a philosophical argument on the tube platform, but somehow he was still interested to hear his response. Except he was waiting a while, staring down at Aziraphale as he pondered his response. Once or twice he looked like he might be starting to say something, before questioning himself. 

“My god doesn’t much mind about homosexuality, I believe,” he said finally. Even Crowley, king of schooling his features, couldn’t help but double take at that one. It didn’t help that he’d forgotten to put his sunglasses on after being in the studio. His face was an open book at this point. “I know what they said at school, and I know that most would disagree with me. But, God made us right? Seems they wouldn’t have done that if it was wrong…” 

“Us?” Crowley asked without meaning to. 

The train appeared with its deafening roar, so much so that Crowley couldn’t even hear the strangled “oh, I, erm”s Aziraphale was throwing down. He wanted to reassure him that he needn’t worry - he was just joking, but that flipping sensation in his stomach was in full force. Crowley piled into the train, jumping into a seat, grateful that it was late enough he could do so, and was quickly followed by a nervously ticking Aziraphale. He sprawled across two seats.

“You’re still living near Green Park?” he asked. Aziraphale nodded.

“Good memory,” he commented. 

“I actually saw you around there a year or so back,” Crowley shrugged, digging his sunglasses out of his bag and pulling them over his eyes. Much better. He could barely see, but it saved him the horror of Aziraphale’s gaze bearing into him the way it seemed to be intent to do.

“You should’ve said hello,” he said softly. If Crowley cared about these things, he might have said he even sounded hurt. Definitely didn’t care though. Definitely didn’t want to reassure him. 

“Well, wasn’t sure you weren’t all… y’know. And anyway, we hadn’t exactly been mates since we were eleven-”

“Twelve”

“Alright, twelve. But it would have just been weird,”

Crowley waited for the witty retort, but it never came. As the tube slowed to the next stop, Aziraphale stood and looked down at Crowley sprawled across the seats, feeling much smaller than he had two minutes previously. 

“Right, of course,” he nodded as though he agreed, but his eyes were definitely hurt. “Not mates, of course. Have a nice weekend, Crowley,”

Aziraphale bounded off the tube and rushed towards the Green Park exit. Crowley stared after him, grateful more than ever for his sunglasses.


	3. Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale meets some demons, eats some sushi, and confuses Crowley more than Crowley confuses Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To misquote Kung Fu Panda:   
> One often finds their homosexual confusion on the path they take to avoid it.

Weekends, Aziraphale pondered, were the worst things invented by mankind. Not only did they give one the hope and experience of being the master of one’s own destiny, only to rudely rip it from their grasp come Monday morning, but when one was really quite keen to keep their from mind running away from itself, a distraction would be a blessed gift.

This called for extra Latin.

The problem with Latin was that it was incredibly dull to sit in a room with a mug of cocoa and some dusty old texts (half of which alluded quite often to ‘aggressive homosexuality’) and so was just about the worst distraction one could have. 

Deciding enough was enough; Aziraphale poked his head out of his room, before dashing quickly to the door, grabbing his keys and scarpering onto the streets of the city. 

He liked London - especially the parts like this that drew the crowds. It was fascinating seeing people in all their forms. Families, couples on first dates and couples on fiftieth dates, a whole milieu of people co-existing in relative peace (peace that is relative to London meaning: no peace at all, but we’re all in this together so it’s fine). He felt very separate from them all, but that was okay. He’d always been a little bit separate. 

His feet carried him where they usually did: towards a quiet little bookshop he’d been coming to since he was a kid and much too young to like the dusty covers for anything more than how they felt in his hands. Tucked into the only corner of Soho that could possibly be described as quiet, the bookshop was probably the place he loved most. The owner (Mr Robbins, an elderly gentleman who seemed to have been about a hundred years old for the past thirty years) rather liked Aziraphale, and didn’t mind letting him sit in the seat under the window and pass the time skimming the pages of some more obscure texts. 

Today wasn’t a day for sitting, though. He entered the shop with the tinkling of the little bell, and instead of making a beeline to the shelf of new books, he meandered slowly past the shelves he’d traced a thousand times and made a slow trajectory to the counter. Mr Robbins wasn’t currently anywhere to be seen, but that didn’t matter. He was normally hiding somewhere in the backroom with books we wouldn’t let anyone touch never mind buy. Instead, Aziraphale hovered. Inexplicable really, that feeling of being so utterly contented in a place or a thing you just wanted to be near it for no other reason. 

The bookshop was the only place in the world he kept that part of himself. 

“Aziraphale,” a familiar croon came from behind. Mr Robbins, somehow carrying a whole pile of heavy looking books stacked in his arms. Hurrying forwards, Aziraphale fussed.

“Oh dear, let me,” he said, taking the books from Mr Robbins. 

“Just over there, please,” he pointed to the shelf marked up for French literature. 

“You need to hire someone to help you in here,” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, and therefore he knew exactly what was going to come next. “And no, I’m sorry but I do not have the time. I have my studies, and volunteering, and-”

“You’re in here enough anyway, lad,” Robbins said, not without a point. “Might as well get paid for it,”

Of course, Mr Robbins would understand if he told the truth. His parents wouldn’t exactly be thrilled that he was working, never mind in the middle of Soho, and whilst he could explain away visiting ‘a bookshop’ every now and then, they’d be much more interested if he was working there. Hard to explain away the majority of the clientele if they came snooping around. 

“It’s not a long visit today,” Aziraphale said, taking a leaf out of a certain someone’s book and changing the conversation. “Just off on a walk and thought I’d say hullo,” 

“Goodness me, a walk? You must be sick,” 

“No, no. Perfectly fine. Just, things to walk. See. Must dash,” Aziraphale insisted, and before the old bookseller could wheedle anything out of him, he waved his goodbyes and hurried from the shop with the same tinkle he entered with. 

Standing on the edge of the pavement, Aziraphale had very few options on what to actually do. He could go back home and hide in his room until Monday, worrying himself sick over a stupid conversation with someone who, at the heart of it, wasn’t a friend, or he could go and see the city. Enjoy the joy of living in the hustle and bustle; take joy in the last few days of summer. 

With a head full of thoughts, Aziraphale walked. He walked and walked; past bustles of tourists, all of who were trying to locate the nearest tube station, past shops and past parks. He walked past bad restaurants and hovered outside good ones before walking past them too. Though he felt on the outside of it all, it was such a beautiful city to be on the outside of; so full of life.

By the time he remembered that he must return at some point, he looked up and found himself in a particularly seedy part of Camden. Aziraphale belonged in Camden just about as much as he belonged in a Soho sex club, which is to say that his discomfort at the thought far outweighed his curiosity. Looking around him, he spotted a small canal, sporting a few benches, which looked good for a quick stop. It had been a long journey after all, and his feet were sore. 

Do you ever have those moments where you completely change your mind about your trajectory just as it’s too late? In that moment as Aziraphale marched towards the bench with purpose, he heard just about the last thing he wanted to hear, coming from right beside the bench he was heading for. 

“You’re not bumming smokes off me, Hastur. Buy your own,” and if Aziraphale wished that his mind were conjuring Crowley (he wished for quite the opposite), on this occasion he was not so lucky. Sprawled as though he was on a very lavish sofa in his own living room and not a wooden bench beside one of the smellier canals in Camden, Crowley was surrounded by others. 

Of course, Aziraphale had seen people like Crowley’s friends before. They wore all black with hints of red, military jackets with sewn on patches with symbols that he could only assume were band logos. They were the kind of people who would jeer at him on the bus for wearing waistcoats and having a barber. Crowley, somehow, looked quite the part in his black jeans, black tee and black blazer, but something about him didn’t fit there. 

He didn’t have time to consider it too much though; he had to get out of there. Sore feet or not, Aziraphale didn’t know what was worse - Crowley’s friends spotting him before Crowley did, or the other way around. Turning sharply on his heel, not giving a hoot about how unsubtle he was being to the gentleman cycling by, Aziraphale was off along the canal, hoping that even if he was visible (his bright blonde curls didn’t exactly help on that front) he was going fast enough to be both unrecognisable and very very far away. 

——————-

Crowley was bored. Of course, he was always bored. He was much too intelligent to be underestimated the way he was by just about everyone, and so hadn’t been fully stimulated since he was about eleven. He couldn’t entertain himself with reading, because it bored him, he couldn’t sit down and waste the days watching TV like everyone else because he didn’t get the appeal, and even painting seemed boring today. Which left Hastur, Ligur and Elle. 

Repulsion was so different to boredom, after all.

Ligur had been going on about his many exploits for twenty minutes now, and Crowley was starting to wish he was sat in front of an Eastenders omnibus or forcing a screwdriver into his eardrums. He’d taken to flipping the lid of his lighter just to remind his brain not to die when Hastur took that as an open invitation to steal his cigarettes. Cigarettes he totally had, because he definitely smoked, and didn’t just pretend so his mates wouldn’t think he was a square who liked to carry around a zippo for fun. 

Fate works in mysterious ways, however. Without Hastur getting annoyed at Crowley and throwing a canal sock (a sock found in the canal) at him, Crowley would have never sat up in utter disgust and glared daggers over at the other boy, which would have meant he’d never see the flash of golden hair hurrying away from him. 

“And with that, you have lost the blessing of my company,” and so he stood, and very coolly sauntered off. Except he wasn’t sauntering off; not really. He was sauntering towards. 

Crowley considered the same thing he did in just about every situation: who had the upper hand. Aziraphale had no idea that he was behind him - he could strike at any moment, and Crowley knew these roads like the back of his hand. One look at Aziraphale told Crowley that he was as lost as could be. He stood dithering, physically dithering between the left and right path, wringing his hands together for such a long time that Crowley had to actually stop and wait to see what he would do. Most normal teenagers would be pulling up Google Maps on their phones, but Aziraphale seemed to be playing ip-dip-doo to decide the way.

“You want to turn right, Angel,” he called out. 

“Oh. Oh,” Aziraphale turned, emotions moving from relief and thanks straight into tension. “Crowley,” he didn’t sound surprised to see him. 

“How many people live in London, Angel? At least a million-”

“It’s about eight-”

“Like I said, at least a million, and yet here I am bumping into you. Stalking me?”

“You’re the one following me,” Aziraphale pointed out petulantly. It wasn’t exactly true - Crowley had caught up to the other boy now, and was walking by his side. Without a word Aziraphale got into step with him. “And in any case, if I was stalking you why would I walk right past you?” 

“Knew I was there then, did you?” if Crowley was hoping for another patented blush, he didn’t get it. Instead he got a pointed look from Aziraphale as he raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Ah well, I wouldn’t say we’re - how did you put it? - Not exactly mates, eh?” 

“Oh, come on. You’re not going to keep something I said a century ago against me are you?” 

“That was yesterday, Crowley,”

“Same thing,” he groaned, removing his sunglasses to rub the bridge of his nose before promptly returning them. “Look, I just meant-”

“No, it’s quite alright. I understand,” and oddly, Crowley actually believed him. 

“It’s probably for the best. Can’t imagine you’d take particularly well to that lot. Or vice versa for that matter,” 

“No? Is this not the part where you tell me not to judge a book by its cover?” 

“Books, no. Demonic barbarians, yes. Judge away,” Crowley growled, seemingly catching Aziraphale utterly off-guard as he burst into a fit of laughter.

When Aziraphale laughed like that, Crowley was so thrown by the lack of pretense or irony or cruelty that at first he was sure it must have been sarcastic, but the moment he looked over at the other boy he looked so… mirthful Crowley couldn’t help but be proud of himself. He was so wrapped up in that, studying the effects that laughter had on Aziraphale when he didn’t notice that the laughter had stopped and he was staring right at him as Crowley gawped. 

Crowley coughed and looked back at his feet. 

They walked in silence for a while, with Crowley bumping into Aziraphale every time he failed to take the hint to cross whilst the road was quiet, until he decided that pointing might be slightly less likely to make the other boy jump ten foot out of his skin in a Christian panic. 

“Can I ask you something?” Aziraphale asked after a while. Crowley merely shrugged. He wasn’t sure if it was the feeling of not really wanting to point out that that was, in itself, a question, or wanting to appear non-committal, or just to hide the pulse that had appeared in his throat the second he’d said it. 

“What did you mean, the other day in the park?” 

“To what are you referring?” he said, hoping that hiding behind elongated diction would shield him from giving anything away he didn’t want given. 

“You said I’d changed,” Aziraphale said, voice quiet but not small at all. “How do you mean?” 

Crowley tried to recall the conversation, but his mind kept jumping to the fact that this must have been bothering Aziraphale. Enough to fretfully be wringing his hands in Crowley’s absence of a response.

“Oh I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Could’ve been anything,” and honestly he would have left it there if it wasn’t for the frightfully vulnerable look Aziraphale was shooting him. 

He hadn’t quite worked out if the other boy knew exactly what he was doing wielding a look like that just yet.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend like I remember a lot about things back then, because frankly I’ve done my best to forget everything about that place. But you’re… different now-”

“Yes, you said that,” Crowley was spared coming up with something more informative to say, which in turn would have required a level of self-awareness he didn’t enjoy at the best of times, by reaching his destination. 

“We’re here,” 

“Here?” 

At which point Aziraphale tore his eyes from their interrogation mode and looked around to see Crowley’s prized possession, the love of his life, his baby: the Bentley. It sparkled beautifully on the London side road.

“Please don’t tell me you’re stealing this car,” Aziraphale said with uncertainty. Crowley shrugged.

“Oh, you want to walk all the way back do you?” he said, conveniently ignoring the very thriving tube, bus, and taxi services which ran all night long. “Thought not. Get in, Angel,” 

Crowley unlocked his door, climbed in and unlocked the passenger door from there: his baby was a vintage and vintage cars were not befouled with very useful central locking systems. To his surprise, Aziraphale actually clambered in to the passenger seat, looking only mildly huffy.

“Where to?” Crowley said, starting up the engine and enjoying the sound it made as it burst to life beneath him. His hands toyed with the wheel, and when he shot a look to his silent passenger, he was staring directly at his hands. 

“Where to, oh that’s a wonderful question. Wherever is easiest for you I suppose,” 

“Shut up, I’ll take you home,” Crowley said as venomously as he could muster, which was admittedly not much. 

A thought came to him as he pulled away from the space - if Hastur and the others had followed to see what he was up to, what would they think of this? Cowley picking up a St Michael’s Trinity boy of all things. He supposed he could shrug it off with a lewd comment, but even the thought of that made him feel a bit uncomfortable. He settled on the knowledge that he could tell them that he fancied a drive and also to fuck off and mind their own business, but the whole thing unsettled him so much so that he’d failed to listen to half of what Aziraphale was rattling on about beside him. 

“- late it had gotten. Mind of my own, really. Mother will be cross of course, but I’m sure I’ll be able to make myself up some dinner once they’re all in bed, but it’s not the end of the world if I can’t. It’s only one meal. Well, two if you count lunch but that really was my own fault,” he twittered on, partially (Crowley suspected) at the assumption that Crowley had zoned out. He wondered how often Gabe zoned out of things like this. 

“Rewind a bit there, Angel. Are you telling me you haven’t eaten since breakfast?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale shifted guiltily in his seat. 

“And you may not eat tonight?” 

“Mother doesn’t like it when we miss meals. We eat together or not at all,” which was just about the saddest thing he’d heard all day. 

“Well that settles it, then,” he said, checking the road quickly before merging into the right lane and making quite a fast and tight turn towards their new destination. Beside him, Aziraphale clutched at his seat with white knuckles and an expression of half terror and half confusion. 

“Settles what exactly?” 

“We’re getting food,” he said through clenched teeth, thinking about how he might explain this to the demons. He was hungry; that was all. Wanted some sushi - would Aziraphale like sushi - didn’t matter, he was hungry for sushi. That was it. And also, fuck off. 

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale said. That threw Crowley. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to not jabber on about these things. 

Crowley did his best to focus on the road, but between that, rage at Aziraphale’s mother for whatever don’t eat policy she enforced, Hastur and Ligur just for existing, and himself for getting all mixed up in whatever he was doing right now there was very little conversation happening in the car. It wasn’t until Crowley had miraculously found a space a road down from the restaurant and pulled into it that anyone spoke. 

“Thank you-” 

“Ready?” Crowley said, hoping to ignore any thank you’s that might be thrown around. 

Aziraphale nodded and climbed out of the car. Crowley locked it up and set off down the road without waiting to see if Aziraphale would follow. He did - of course he did - staring up past the shop fronts to the original architecture with a small smile on his face.

“This part of town is beautiful,” 

“If you say so. C’mon, Angel,” he said, half dragging Aziraphale on the arm into the small sushi restaurant. “It’s not exactly the Ritz, but it’s alright,”

He held up two fingers rather than speaking when the server approached, and followed as they (a boy around the same age as them) dropped them off at a booth in the window and gave them menus.

Aziraphale was astounded. 

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale gasped as he spotted a lit up aquarium hosting some rather exotic looking fish. “Look at that. And the plants!” 

Crowley, who had always had a soft spot for a good houseplant, peered over the top of his menu, sunglasses firmly and desperately in place, watching as Aziraphale took in the wonders of this new fangled restaurant. By the time the waiter returned with a tap water Crowley didn’t remember ordering, Aziraphale hadn’t even looked at the menu.

“I don’t know what’s good,” he said, as though he was immediately concerned that he was going to get turfed out. He shot Crowley another of his wide-eyed stares that only seemed to get more powerful the more he was exposed to them. 

“We’ll have a Matsu platter and a Kyoto platter, thanks,” he said, folding up the menu and passing it over. The waiter gave him a long stare with a subtle smile before walking off. 

“Do you know, I’ve never had sushi,” Aziraphale nattered on. “Father always said it was just a bit foreign - well I suppose it is, but he said it like it was a bad thing - and anyway I’ve always seen places like this, and never really known what was good so I’ve never taken the plunge,”

Crowley let him chat away, pleased enough for now that there would be no late-night cooking just to have a meal, and to have someone chatting so excitedly about the world. He was so often surrounded by people who took such bitter joy at hating world around them that this was refreshing. He felt like he could breathe. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale was saying after a while.

“Sorry, must’ve drifted off. You don’t half talk,” Crowley said as though he thought it was a bad thing.

“Yes, well I was asking about your art,” 

“My art?” 

“Yes, how’s it all going?” he asked, and frankly Crowley was thinking more about if anyone had ever actually asked him that instead of an answer.

The food arrived just in time to cause a minor distraction, but by the time they were tucking in (sharing platters, which was definitely more about giving himself options than anything else) he was able to actually think about a response.

“S’okay,” he said, very coolly with a mouth full of sashimi. “Got an art show in a few weeks. A scholars dinner or something to show the donors what hard working little charity cases we are,” 

“Can I come?” which threw him again. 

“Excuse me?”

“Can I come? Is it an open show?” 

“Er, yeah. I guess it is,” 

“Well this is wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaimed, staring deeply at the remainder of the dish he’d been tucking into. “Is it all like this?” 

Crowley spent the rest of the meal trying to explain sushi and different options, which led to Aziraphale wanting to try basically all of them and matcha and then declaring he needed to take his tongue on a culinary tour of the world before Crowley rolled his eyes.

“That sounds wildly inappropriate,” he said, which Aziraphale shrugged off.

“Pish posh. Next time we should try udon!” he declared, picking things he liked the sound of off the menu. The words hit Crowley like a bullet to the chest as his brain struggled to come to grips with the whole next time business, like this was going to be a thing they did, but actually they were doing it right now so maybe it was.

Crowley didn’t so much as walk to the loo as legged it straight there. 

When he returned, calmer now, heart rate returned to somewhere near normal and blank expression back on his face, he paid their bill at the till and slid back into their booth. Casually. Very casual. 

“Ready?” 

It was only then he noticed the look on Aziraphale’s face. He looked aghast. The tips of his ears were red, in much the same way as they were when Crowley flustered him, but there was no playfulness on his face now. He looked pale. 

“Oh yes, let’s go,” he said in a daze, and led the way out of the restaurant. They were half way back to the car when he exclaimed “oh no! The bill,” 

“Oh dear. You’re a dine-and-dasher now. They’ll never let you back. Stealing is a sin, isn’t it? And think of all the sushi you’ll never eat. Nowhere else does it quite like that you know,” 

But when Crowley looked at Aziraphale he was all wringing hands and concerned expression again.

“Angel, I’m joking. I paid the bill. It’s fine,” he said but that seemed to make things worse. 

If Crowley had to name the look it would very much be an animal caught in the headlights. He had no idea what had gotten into him or what was going through his mind right now, but for some unfathomable and implacable reason there was nothing Crowley needed to do more than reassure him.

“Are you okay to get in the car?” he barely recognised the tenderness in his own voice, but he couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed. Aziraphale looked up at him with that stare of his and nodded very subtly. “Okay, is there anything you need?” he shook his head.

Crowley led him in silence the rest of the way to the car and unlocked it without a word. Aziraphale slid in, nervously sat with the most insanely rigid posture he’d ever seen outside of a doctor’s office posture on spines. He stared down into his hands, overcome with something that Crowley couldn’t touch. 

So instead he drove. He focused all of his attention on the road, and barely drove above the speed limit to reduce the tension from the boy next to him. Time sat still in the Bentley: no matter how far they travelled away from whatever had just happened, Aziraphale was cut off from him, and he had no idea why it was bugging him so much. By the time he pulled the Bentley up to Aziraphale’s building, he’d almost convinced himself he was annoyed at the other boy for being so weird.

One look at the passenger’s seat dispelled that anger in an instant. Aziraphale was looking at him now, big eyes focused on him but not really. 

“Thank you for the lift,” he said with a kind smile. “Have a lovely evening,” 

And with a bang of the door, the Bentley was empty and Crowley was more than a little bit confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally cannot believe all the lovely comments and kudos this is getting! Sorry for the slower update - it's been a bit of a busy few weeks - so hopefully this will be more regular? Let me know if you're enjoying it. I kinda have an idea where this is going now so I've updated the chapters but we'll see. This was much longer than anticipated so oops.


	4. You're My Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale confesses, Crowley takes a risk.

“Is he your boyfriend?” the waiter asked the second Crowley had slunk off into the bathroom. Aziraphale dabbed his napkin to his lips. Soy sauce really was fantastic.

“Excuse me?” certain he’d misheard. 

“This? Are you on a date?” the waiter said impatiently, gesturing between himself and Crowley’s empty seat. 

Aziraphale spluttered. 

“A date?” he repeated dumbly. What on Earth would give him that impression? Well, okay so Crowley did drive him here, and it was just the two of them. He did seem to be in the habit of calling him Angel, which wasn’t a particularly normal pet name for someone who was maybe a friend, and he himself had just suggested doing this again sometime. Even so. A date? “No, no it’s not a date,” 

“Oh, so I could ask him out?” 

“No!” Aziraphale shrieked without quite understanding why that was worse than the previous misunderstanding. “He’s, erm, golly, just super heterosexual. Got a girlfriend, lives in Canada but they make it work. You know how these internet relationships are like these days,” 

“Oh that’s a shame,” the waiter said, continuing to gather the plates and stare over to the bathroom where Crowley was emerging. “What about you?” 

“No thank you,” Aziraphale said, longing for this waiter to evaporate into thin air as Crowley headed back towards the table. 

He’d really buggered this up.

What was he thinking? On the one hand he may have inadvertently been on a date with Crowley of all people, which was so unfair to Anthony if that’s what he thought. But of course he didn’t. Anthony was… Anthony. He wouldn’t be interested in fusty little Aziraphale. And surely there has to be some agreement? Some asking. Crowley hadn’t exactly asked him to dinner but more declared the whole thing was going to happen in some fit of rage Aziraphale didn’t understand. A hostage situation at best.

But why on Earth had he gone and told the waiter not to ask Crowley out? 

A whole day locked in his bedroom hadn’t illuminated anything in that department and nervously going over the whole thing in his head before Ancient Religions and Philosophy started wasn’t helping. Not helping of course by noticing that Crowley was going to be late yet again (or worse: totally absent). 

He’d worked himself into such a stupor about the whole thing that by the time the door threw itself open at 9 on the dot and Crowley sauntered in with those hips of his, sunglasses firmly in place, Aziraphale felt equal rushes of relief and absolute mind boggling panic. 

He was going to have to come clean and apologise, that was the only thing for it. 

If he was worried that Crowley might be mad with him for his utterly bizarre behaviour, he was surprised when the boy slid into his own seat and immediately started poking at the back of Aziraphale’s jacket.

“Pssst,” he said very distractingly and not particularly quietly. “You okay?” 

Aziraphale turned his head only a smidge - just enough to see his classmates’ concerned expression out of the corner of his eye. His stomach dropped at the sight. Oh dear. He nodded anyway. 

“You going to be cooking later?” he whispered slightly quieter now, so much so that it came out as a hiss. Aziraphale nodded very slightly. “I’ll be in the studio,”

Which really could have meant “I’ll be in the studio” but sounded a lot more like an invitation. He thought about not taking him up on the offer - there was no reason to really, not even a proper invite - but his treacherous heartbeat was giving him quite the reaction to the whole thing, and he wondered if maybe the best thing to do would be to get it over with. 

He’d go, but only to apologise for yesterday. He’d let Crowley know about the waiter and clear up any misunderstandings, and see his friend’s art. No one could argue with that plan.

———

As it turned out, Aziraphale could argue with that plan and he spent the rest of the day jumping back and forth on the whole idea, urging himself just to be brave enough to get it all sorted, or be unconcerned enough to let the blasted situation go. 

When his classes ended and he faced the options of heading straight home or actually just facing his demons, his feet made the decision for him. They carried him (as he still fretfully pretended there was any decision to make) towards the Art Building. Taking some agency of the situation, he popped into the Tesco across the street - if he was going to do this whole thing, he wasn’t going to be so obvious.

He was baking, that was all. 

After burning two batches of pastries, discovering a creation that looked more mushroom like than meringue and spilt two cups of milk on the floor, he settled for a cookie recipe that no one could mess up. It probably helped that by he’d decided these were apology cookies. You can’t mess up apology cookies. 

By the time he’d taken them out of the oven, filled his favourite tartan flask with a bit of milk it was only seven thirty. Plenty of time. Maybe too much time. 

If his cleaning routine was more thorough than usual, that had nothing to do with putting off what was about to happen. But, eventually there was nothing left to do, and waiting any longer would mean the cookies weren’t warm, so he stood with a confidence he’d copied from Gabe, and found himself walking down the corridor and knocking on the art studio door. 

“Uh-yup,” he heard from within. It was Crowley, but didn’t sound very much like him. There was no pretense to his voice, he sounded almost distracted, and as Aziraphale fumbled with the handle and his bag of treats, he tried to work out if that was a good or bad thing for what was about to happen. 

There he was, perched like an artfully stacked pile of limbs on the edge of a stool, his whole attention on the easel in front of him. Aziraphale couldn’t see the painting from here, just the thin lines of concentration around Crowley’s pursed lips as he held his brush out. 

“Give me a-” Crowley said, growing distracted by a small detail of something Aziraphale couldn’t even comprehend before he could even finish speaking. 

Without a word, Aziraphale found himself a work-station and began pulling out his apology spread. He poured the milk into the flask’s lid, arranged some cookies on a plate, and by the time he was approaching Crowley the other boy looked perfectly pleased with himself. 

“Finished, I reckon,” he said smugly. 

“Can I see?” Aziraphale asked. Without a word Crowley gestured him forwards. If there was a flash of nerves waiting for his reaction, Aziraphale didn’t see it. 

The painting was exquisite - he didn’t know much about art but it really was fantastic. It showed an angel and a demon, dappled in soft sunlight, fighting over an apple. It looked like it should belong in a gallery, somewhere with endless crowds and admirers. He stared at it for seconds, and then a few seconds more. 

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale looked fondly at Crowley. His sunglasses were on top of his head now, and Aziraphale found himself slightly stunned by actually being able to see his eyes. “Just lovely. What’s it called?”

“Dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “What’s that?” 

He had his eyes on the flask and plate of cookies. 

“Oh, I - I made these. For you,” he stumbled over the words, caught off guard as usual as Crowley bounced from conversation point to conversation point. It was odd - he’d baked for other people before, but here they both were staring at the plate of cookies like it was a bomb or a newborn baby. Aziraphale could barely bring himself to look at Crowley, and when he did he had no idea how to read that expression. “Actually, this comes with a slight caveat on my part,” 

“Oh?” the tone was guarded immediately. 

“Take them, please,” he pushed the treats onto Crowley who took them and put them on the work station beside him. “It’s just that yesterday, at dinner - very kind of you actually, I suppose I should say thank you - I was a bit odd, I’m sorry. But you looked after me, which really is splendidly kind. And well, I did something quite deplorable,” 

“Which is?” 

“Well, really I should say that the waiter was being ghastly rude, in my opinion-”

“Angel,” that tone again.

“Right, sorry. The waiter, you see, he asked me if we were- well if we were on a date,” Crowley’s expression didn’t change. “A date! And anyway, then he asked if he should ask you out,”

“He didn’t,” Crowley assured him, and he didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

“No, I know he didn’t, because I told him that you weren’t interested in boys, you know? Ghastly, and I really am sorry. It wasn’t my place to decide if he asked you out or not, and I certainly shouldn’t have lied,” 

Crowley chewing the mouthful of cookie in that moment was one of the most prominent moments of Aziraphale’s life. He really couldn’t tell anything about what Crowley might be thinking right now; was he cross? He had every right to be. 

“Crowley?”

“Why did you do that?” guarded tone. Walls up. Keep out sign flashing yellow in his eyes. 

“I don’t know,”

“You’re sure?” Crowley stared into him now. “Because if this is a ‘God forgives you, being gay is a choice, I can save you’ piece of shit then you can leave your cookies and fuck off,”

Aziraphale felt a lot like he had been shot right about then. 

“No. Never,” he croaked.

“But,” Crowley continued. “If this is some dumb, flustered you-typed thing then that’s a lot more understandable. Right?” 

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded, not quite sure what he was getting himself into, desperate for those walls to fall down again. His eyes dropped to his hands. 

“Aziraphale?” he looked up at Crowley. The other boy was wearing his sunglasses now, and that just about finished him off. Luckily, he’d had a lot of practice not crying in front of others - Father wouldn’t like it - so he managed to balance the last straw at the back of his throat like a burning time bomb. “If I said the painting was of you, who would you say you were?” 

He hadn’t expected that. 

Aziraphale blinked away the remaining threat from his eyes and turned with a controlled smile back to the canvas. Art - he could work out art, surely. Angel or demon? Well, what a question - Crowley could place this to their Philosophy class and start quite the riot. How did he see himself, that was one question, but more interestingly, how did Crowley see him? That thought distracted him more than he’d care to admit. 

He thought on it longer than Crowley had probably anticipated, before answering. 

“The apple,” 

“Why?” 

“It appears to me like the struggle of man, as represented by the apple, where good and evil fight over a claim to him,”

“Fight?” 

“Yes, they’re fighting,” 

“Oh, interesting,”

“Did I get it right?” 

“Well it’s not actually about you, it was just a question,”

“Oh, yes that makes sense,” 

—————

Okay, so he’d lied, but Aziraphale lied first. And at least in this case he was doing what was best for someone else - not that he’d ever admit it. 

So, Aziraphale had told a waiter he was straight to avoid him being asked out. The look on his face when Crowley suggested it could be a Jesus Loves You inspired lie was enough to show him that definitely wasn’t the case, which left very few other reasons he could do that. 

It had been weeks since the sushi incident and they’d fallen into a bit of a routine. Aziraphale would look at him with those big doe eyes of his every Monday morning, and he would act as though he didn’t notice. They’d exchange maybe two lines with each other. Aziraphale would eat alone or, on a bad day, would be accosted to join Gabe and Urie. Those days he was always quieter in their evening meetings. 

There wasn’t a day that went by the Aziraphale didn’t come to the studio door with a treat for him. He’d admire his latest project, and pitch in biblical verse that suited it. Crowley had picked a theme for the exhibition, based not at all on anything Aziraphale had said about good and evil’s claim over man, but his own musings. 

They’d spend time in the studio, which generally consisted of Aziraphale convincing Crowley to actually wash up after himself, and Crowley convincing Aziraphale to give him another few biscuits, and then walk over to the tube. It wasn’t a lot of time, but Crowley had very quickly grown used to having the other boy around. 

Weekends were the best. 

It started when one Friday evening they’d been walking back to the tube and Aziraphale had said (with all the subtlety of a train), “Ahh, do you know, I think I might take another walk tomorrow,”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I really enjoyed seeing this lovely city last time. It’s about time I explored a bit more of it,” which would have been more convincing if there wasn’t currently a woman throwing coke at passersby just for a laugh. 

“Great,” Crowley said. 

“Where- what will you be up to this weekend?” 

“No plans,” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale had said. “Well, I’ll be walking, as I mentioned. Battersea, probably,” 

If the hints weren’t enough, the doe eyes would’ve been flashing neon signs, and when Aziraphale ‘happened upon’ Crowley lounging outside a lovely cafe near Battersea Park, even he didn’t seem surprised. 

“Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch,” was all he said as he whisked away down the street. 

They’d seen all the major London parks, spent one Saturday trawling through Aziraphale’s favourite used book stores before Crowley put his foot down and dragged Aziraphale to a bar, and even bumped into each other on the beach front in Brighton. 

This weekend, Crowley found Aziraphale wandering around St James’ Park. The ice cream vendor had, for some unknown reason (the exchanging of money for goods) given Crowley a spare ice cream, which he just happened to dump on the first person he saw. It was all very accidental. 

“-and do you know what else? It’s too busy. The whole city is just filled with people. And not the good, London typed people who keep to themselves and hate everything around them. It’s filled with the happy typed people wanting to go places and see things and speak with strangers on the street,”

“I like to-”

“Well, yes of course you do, but when you do it it’s- y’know,” he couldn’t think of a bro-way to say endearing, so skipped the adjective completely. “But when they do it it’s slow and they stop in the middle of pavements to take pictures of bins,”

“Bins?” 

“Actual bins, Angel. I’ve seen them,” Crowley came to the end of his rant as they reached the bridge across the pond. He found himself leaning against the rails as Aziraphale looked over the park with great contentedness on his face. “That’s why London is terrible at the weekend,”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Aziraphale stilled. His eyes darted to Crowley and then right away so quickly he almost missed it. “I’ve found Saturdays in London quite nice,”

There it was again - that tenderness which betrayed something so fierce beneath it. Crowley felt the moment crawling up his stomach like warmth from a fire, and it felt so foreign. It occurred to him then that no one in his entire history had looked at him like he was so good before. 

So he did the only thing humans can do in reaction to that: he reached out for it, wanted to immerse himself in the whole thing. It was without thought, without intention. It was nothing more than the brushing of two fingers against the inside wrist of his companion, but it was the biggest thing he’d ever done. He didn’t realise it was possible to be so certain and uncertain all at once.

Aziraphale tensed with the contact, like instead of warmth he was feeling a jolt of electricity where the two fingertips rested. Crowley halted, leaving the rest of the distance up to Aziraphale to close. He didn’t, but he didn’t pull back either. They held there, surrounded by tourists taking their photos, and they didn’t move. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said breathily. 

“If I’ve got this all twisted-” 

“Crowley,” was all Aziraphale said again. A beat, a breath - a pause in the universe in which nothing would be the same afterwards. Crowley thought about the apple - all that was good (or what Aziraphale had been taught was good which often amounted to something slightly lacking) and wanting inside him pulling him apart. “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” 

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. His face was so open, so honest. His eyes bore into Crowley’s, the sunglasses between them invisible in the moment. 

And then Aziraphale pulled away, but not before letting his hand engulf Crowley’s as it passed it. 

“Come on. I’m hungry,” Crowley said once his heart had calmed. “Sushi?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly dying with how much I love all of your comments. I'm also dying with these boys. Send help. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting and everything!! Hope you enjoyed the new chapter. x


	5. Crazy Little Thing Called Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is one instance away from discorporating, Crowley pulls away, something begins.

Saturday night in through Sunday he trod the line between fever dream and waking nightmare. He couldn’t eat; a phenomenon that he been all too regular recently but still made no sense. He certainly didn’t sleep. In fact, he could think of nothing he wanted to do that wasn’t either travelling two hours back in time or five years ahead to where things were different; where things could be so different. 

Five years. He let out a ragged breath. He knew he needed time but that seemed excessive, but no matter what he cut it down to (up to and including 4 years and 364 days) it seemed like he might be rushing things. 

Then his mind would jump to Crowley and his hand in his for that fleeting second as he pulled away (how many times had he stared at those hands? Five times? One hundred?) and suddenly five years was nothing at all. He could wait millennia for Crowley, but more importantly, he didn’t want to. 

He just needed time.

He was a walking ghost on Monday morning, and had spent the last 37 hours imagining his best friend by his side, so when he saw Crowley there, outside the classroom early, kicking back against the door before Mr. Lawson had even arrived, Aziraphale simply assumed he was seeing things again.

Of course, one often treats best-friends-who-you-may-be-utterly-head-over-heels-for-but-you-still-somehow-rejected-only-two-days-ago quite differently to how one treats the projected image of that person. In Aziraphale’s case, for example, he was quite happy to, say, join one red head against the wall and tilt his head sleepily against the other boy’s shoulder taking what solace he could in the sleep deprived projection of his psyche. What was the harm? None of it was real anyway. Crowley wouldn’t be here for another twenty minutes yet, and no one else was around. He just needed to rest his eyes. 

So he stayed there, wrapped in his dream-Crowley, pretending he wasn’t such a coward; pretending the same way he had been for weeks, pretending he could smell the hint of his shampoo on his jacket. It was quiet and perfect and just what he needed to rest his eyes before class. Except - 

“Angel,” Crowley said softly under his breath. A warning. In an instant, Aziraphale was aware that not only was the Crowley voice coming from underneath his head (that hadn’t happened with his day dreams before) but also that there was another figure jaunting over to their place in the corridor. 

Aziraphale’s head snapped up and he jumped about a foot away from his previous spot, fumbling with the knowledge that he had just spent ten minutes rested up against Crowley (who, for his part, had let the whole thing happen rather gently) whilst also forcing a Totally Natural Grin™. 

“Morning!” he said in a tone that screamed ‘I’m over-compensating for something’. “Lovely weather,”

“Good morning,” Ana said. She was staring between them like she knew the whole sordid truth of it and could read just about every dark thought in his soul. 

“So, that reading, huh?” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “Who would’ve thought Hobbes had so much to say about… nature?” 

It really wasn’t in Aziraphale’s skillset to, as Crowley might say, bullshit. He’d never needed to: had never shown up without doing the reading and having at least half formed opinions on the topic at hand. His first foray into the whole thing wasn’t exactly going swimmingly, as Ana was staring at him as though both amused at his attempts but also bored by the pretence and wanting nothing more than to dig deeper into his soul. Aziraphale flushed with colour. 

It definitely didn’t help that Crowley was within reaching distance, and that the imprint of his jacket was almost certainly pressed into Aziraphale’s cheek. He could just reach out and tangle their hands or even inch back to his side, and honestly he didn’t think the other boy (or even Anathema, stranger though she was) would have any kind of issue with what he was doing, but the more he considered actually doing it, the more his arms became tied with iron shackles to his sides. 

“I wouldn’t know, I didn’t do the reading,” Ana said, putting him out of his misery as they stewed in his silence. “The whole subject is just a bit hypothetical to me,” 

It really said something about how much he tended to pay in this class that he hadn’t noticed she was American until that moment. He thought of Gabe and the shackles grew heavier around him. 

“Hypothetical?” Crowley spoke up - his first words since he uttered ‘Angel’ under his breath like a prayer. Apparently he too was coming to Aziraphale’s rescue, because as it stood in that moment, Aziraphale really couldn’t do much of anything but stave off the feeling that he was drowning. 

“There are no right answers. Math has right answers. Astrology has right answers-”

“Hold up a minute,” Crowley interrupted in a way that said this was going in a totally different direction than anticipated, but it didn’t deter her. 

“-horoscopes and science have the right answers. Morality, art, existence and literature - it’s all just guess work,” 

Aziraphale felt himself gawking at the girl, not quite sure if she could hear or control the words that were coming out of her mouth. It made utterly no sense and from the stifled silence beside him, he very much assumed Crowley was of the same mind as he. He was so confused, in fact, that the shackles that bore into his wrists had miraculously disappeared, and Aziraphale was able to actually steal a first proper look at his companion. Yes - Crowley was also knitting his eyebrows together in absolute puzzlement. 

Others were joining them in the corridor as Aziraphale considered her. He could understand the appeal of something that was undeniably right, especially right now, but the more he thought on it the more it didn’t ring true to him. 

“Just because we don’t know the answers doesn’t mean they’re not there, my dear,” he said softly. “Speculation, much like faith, and one may go so far to say humanity, isn’t all about right answers. It’s about trying. Humans aren’t numbers. Sometimes something that shouldn’t make sense really is the only thing in the world that does. We can’t know it all. Sometimes it’s just… ineffable. Love, for example,”

The ensuing silence lasted exactly 3.6 seconds, and as these things are often wont to do, three things happened simultaneously. 

First, Crowley let out a strangled groan in response to his little monologue. Like a lurch in the very essence of himself, Aziraphale felt it in the bottom of his stomach. What was that? Desperation - that’s what it sounded like. Desperation from Crowley that was sweeter than any sound he’d ever heard until then, and the desperation inside him reached all the way through him as though grasping for Crowley through his throat. He felt himself pale and his eyes widened in shock. 

Second, a bespectacled boy who was as describable only as unworked clay inserted himself beside Anathema, who, with a warm smile, took his hand and rested her head on his shoulder with a cocked eyebrow at Crowley’s reaction to Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s reaction to Crowley.

Finally, Mr. Lawson chose that moment to emerge from the throngs of students in the corridor and stood like a wholly unaware buffer in the midst of them all. 

“Mr. Crowley, you’re here on time!” he said cheerfully. “You okay? Look like you’ve seen a ghost,”

Aziraphale took the break in Anathema’s attention to compose himself with the most necessary breath he’d ever taken in his life. He must have looked an absolute sight, because as Anathema and the rest of them piled into the classroom, Crowley reached out for him.

“You okay?” he said under his breath. That softness again; it nearly crushed Aziraphale, and when he turned to look at him, seeing his hand withdrawing at the last moment and so much worry and hesitation in his face, he was gone. It was all his fault.

Something clicked or cracked or snapped inside him.

“Fine,” he nodded, employing his best imitation of someone who was fine. “Tickety-boo,”

“Listen, the er… the studio’s gonna be pretty full tonight and I’m going to be working late so I won’t see you,” 

“You won’t?” 

“No. Whole week’s gonna be busy. With the show and everything, but I’ll see you around,” Crowley’s sunglasses had somehow made their way back onto his eyes, and they were definitely going to be late for a class they were half an hour to, and Aziraphale was finding that air was turning to led in his lungs. 

He watched dumbfounded as Crowley turned away from him, towards the classroom with only 50% of a strut and he was pretty sure that would be it. No five years. Not ever. What reason did Anthony have to wait five years? Why would he even wait five minutes for Aziraphale to come around to whatever it was that this was? 

“Lunch!” he found himself saying. 

Crowley span quicker than Aziraphale would have thought possible; with absolutely zero swagger or coordination to his limbs. His expression was guarded, but the sunglasses slipped a millimeter down his nose. 

“Tomorrow. We’ll do lunch?” Aziraphale stared cheerfully over at him, hoping with a determined faith that Crowley had the ability to translate the words into their true meaning. Don’t go. Please don’t just leave.

“Lunch?” 

He nodded. 

“Alright,” Crowley shrugged, melting back into his normal languid posture so quickly it looked like he was made from liquid copper. “I’ll see if I’m free. Let you know,” 

Aziraphale followed him into the classroom with such a spring in his step that he was met Anathema rolling her eyes from her space at the back of the classroom. 

————————————

When the bell rang signaling the end of the day, Aziraphale found himself feeling ridiculously disappointed. This would be the first time in weeks he’d just be going home. Of course he could go and cook or go for a walk or to the bookshop, but he was still so tired and the longer he was awake the more sorry he was going to feel for himself.

At some point he really ought to try and fit in some reading. He’d been quite lax in class that morning. 

He traipsed the route from his class down towards the tube cursing the wind that was whipping his coat around his legs. He honestly didn’t think he could be more ready to just be at home in bed when he heard a familiar drawl. 

“Azi! Just the man,” 

“Gabe,” he deflated even further. He turned to see Gabriel waltzing up to him, the wind apparently not immune to his charms as he looked completely put together. 

“I suppose you’ve heard?” he said, chipper as ever. Aziraphale couldn’t think of a single time he’d heard Gabe sound anything less than mildly delighted to be giving people bad news. 

“Heard?” There were two possible outcomes here, as far as Aziraphale saw it. Either this thing he hadn’t heard was incredibly unimportant and he didn’t care at all about, or it was very important and he’d been told it numerous times and forgotten completely in the midst of all this thinking. 

“The Scholars’ Dinner and Art Show,” his stomach dropped. Did Gabe know that he was going to the art show? Did Gabe know he was going to the art show specifically to see Crowley? “One of my guys - Stephen; choral music scholar, fantastic tenor, anyway, he was at this pre-dinner rehearsal or something, and he saw some of the art-”

“Art?” his stomach continued to descend farther than he knew was possible.

“Theological stuff. Blasphemy, Stephen says. To say it’s distasteful to the word of the Lord is an understatement, Aziraphale. He didn’t catch the artist’s name, but he’s going to try and sneak in tonight and find out. Anyway, I feel like we, as St Michael’s Trinity Boys really ought to make a bit of a statement,” 

“Statement?” 

“Right, a statement. Show that the Lord is no laughing matter. Especially for these people,” he gestured to the students laughing and walking together. “They don’t understand faith, Aziraphale. So we need to make a statement,”

“What kind of statement?” he really did hate how small his voice sounded. He was never like this around anyone else - never with Crowley, but then again, Gabe had a really specific skill to make you hate him and want his approval all at the same time. 

“Defacing it, most likely. Rip a bit of canvas, spray a bit of black paint in all the right places - nothing too wild,” 

“That seems a bit… illegal. Wouldn’t it be better to just protest?” 

“No, not enough time. The show’s in a few days. Drastic measures are needed. Anyway, it’s only student art, not the real stuff like my dad buys,” 

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded gravely, wanting nothing more than to explain that a price tag is not the only measure of art before something struck him. “And why did you need me for this?” 

“Well this is the thing, Azi. You’re the only one of us St Michael’s lot who has access to the Arts building. I suppose you picking a few softer subjects is finally paying off, eh?” Gabe smiled down at Aziraphale waiting for a response he wasn’t going to give. “So you’ll need to let us in so we can get to it,”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, which to him meant ‘I understand what you ask of me, but this is insane and might put a bit of a spanner in some other things I have going on’ but Gabe heard as ‘Gabe, I am so grateful you’re involving me in this, because other wise I really wouldn’t have any social standing at all’. 

“So, Wednesday night we’ll do it,” 

“Now hold on a minute, I don’t think-” 

“Got a tube to catch. You’re the best. I’ll text you the details,” and with that Gabe vanished into a fog of students rushing for the tube, leaving Aziraphale staring down at the ticket gates like they were the gates of heaven and may hold some kind of answer for him.

—————————————

“We’re calling now?” 

“Crowley, there’s something I really should tell you,” 

“Couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” 

“You never got back to me if you were free,”

“Of course I’m free, Angel,” silence. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The St Michael’s lot have heard about the art show,”

“Oh - so they know you-”

“No. They-” Silence. “They’ve heard some of the art is blasphemous,”

“You’re kidding?” 

“I’m not. They want to deface it,”

“Boy howdy,”

“You sound very excited about this,” 

“It’s just funny,”

“Forgive me my dear, but I’m failing to see the humour,”

“So you know my mates?”

“The-”

“-demon Goth bastard parade, yeah. Well, they too have heard telling of the art show,”

“Right,”

“They think it’s too religious. Going to make a-”

“-statement?” 

“Exactly. Burning the whole lot is the plan, I think. Said the whole system of tuition based education is shit, said the whole idea of scholarships is shit, said that art is shit. Lots of shit being tossed around,”

“So they’re going to burn it down?”

“Correctamundo,”

“I don’t see how that’s funny, Crowley,” 

“Really puts your lots’ defacing in perspective no?” Silence. “You don’t think it’s at least a bit funny that your lot are worried it’s not religious enough whereas this lot are worried it’s too religious? Irony, Angel,” 

“But what do we do?” 

“We?” Silence. “Nothing. They’re not going to do it,”

“Gabe already texted me the times. He wants me to let them in,”

“That guy? Ugh,” Crowley clicked his tongue in contemplation.

“We could report them?” 

“Oh yeah, who are they going to believe: head boy from wealthy family and prestigious religious school or rumoured arsonist kicked out of said school for fraternising with the wrong sort?”

“They might believe me,” 

“You’d do that?”

“I like the paintings,”

“Doesn’t matter, really. We have no proof. Your word against theirs. Then there’s the wanker brigade,”

“That’s a terrible way to speak about your friends, you know,”

“Not my friends. Just the closest thing to it I had for a bit,” silence. “You said you had the times?” 

“Yeah. Wednesday at eight,” 

“They do realise I’d still be in the studio then, right?” 

“Didn’t really think I should bring that up, all things considered,” 

“Yeah, suppose not,” 

“Crowley?”

“Yeah, sorry. So, you have the times. We just need to catch them all in the act. Get my mate from security on the job,” 

“You have a mate in security?”

“Yeah, he didn’t ID me and he never locks me in - best mates,” 

“What’s his name?” 

“Dunno, s’besides the point. We’ll catch them in the act - thus, proof,” 

“Hmm… could work,” 

“Yeah,”

Silence.

Silence. 

“I think I should say sorry about the other day,”

“’S’nothing,” 

“But it is something,”

“Yeah?” 

“I think so,” 

Silence.

“Get some sleep, Angel. You sound knackered,” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,”

“Lunch,”

“Yeah. Lunch,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update on this one! Hopefully the next one will be a little quicker but I'm making no promises. Also, there will certainly be more Crowley POV next time! Didn't exclude him for any reason really, but this all just felt like Aziraphale's chapter, you get me? 
> 
> Also, I'm not being dramatic when I say that this whole story and the comments and reaction you guys have been having has really revitalised my love for writing at a time I really needed it so thank you so much. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter and love these dumb dumbs as much as I do. 
> 
> xx


	6. A Kind of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch is delicious.

Crowley fell back against his pillow gripping the phone against his chest. Aziraphale’s voice rang in his ears.

The second he’d seen the caller ID (Angel) light up on his phone he’d known something was up. It wasn’t like them to call, and after everything that had happened the last few days he was expecting something. He wasn’t expecting anything good. He certainly wasn’t expecting ‘but it is something’. 

Of course the whole backdrop of Gabe and Elle trying to trash his art wasn’t what he’d call ideal, but then again no artist ever got renown without making a stir. He knew he ought to be more concerned about the whole thing, and realistically he knew it was serious. Gabe wanted to teach him a lesson, and Crowley didn’t put it past him to involve Aziraphale in that. Elle and the boys thought he was getting too soft, and they weren’t exactly nice to him when they’d thought he was a hardened dick just like them. He didn’t put it past them to bring Aziraphale into this either. 

As if Aziraphale was some meek pawn in their games, ready to roll over and play the victim card. Crowley almost wanted to see how the whole thing would go down, just to see their expressions when they discovered that not only was Aziraphale four steps ahead of them, but also playing a totally different game. 

The problem was, he couldn’t take anything seriously when he felt this giddy. The moment he thought about all the bad that could come from this, his mind just jumped to ’but it is something’ in Aziraphale’s very sincere voice and everything else was rendered utterly meaningless. 

Then of course there was the other thing. Looking around his room - a room provided for him by a temporary foster home who had spoken to him about four times since he’d moved in three months ago - he knew better than anyone the dangers of going too fast. He’d lost everything; his family, his home, his school, his friends. Aziraphale. As much as it crushed him, he couldn’t begrudge his best friend for wanting to keep his life. He definitely wasn’t about to go against his wishes by going too fast. 

Morning came too slow, even though he’d set his alarm an hour earlier than usual. He dressed, fussed over his hair slightly longer than usual and flew out of the flat. He jumped on the tube and headed, not in the direction of college, but straight towards a familiar restaurant somewhere east of Camden. He was there at opening, aware that he was missing his first class (17th Century Russian History) but he also couldn’t care less. 

Back on the tube, he showed up just on time for his second class, during which he did nothing but twitch his legs and stare at the clock. At least his third lesson, Fine Art, had the possibility of distracting him. That lasted for all of two seconds, until he went over his selection of paintings for the art show. Pale blue eyes, not quite right but close enough, stared back at him. A soft smile. 

It wasn’t his fault. Aziraphale just lent himself so well to divinity.

Crowley spent the remaining hour of the lesson starting a new painting. It wasn’t generally a good idea to do that two days before a show, but worst case scenario he already had enough pieces to exhibit. This piece was special though - it was the first time he’d set a brush to canvas intending to put Aziraphale on the page. 

As he drew, Aziraphale’s voice entered his head. In their evenings alone in the studio, he would often read whilst Crowley painted, speaking aloud lines he thought would be of interest. Crowley would usually feign disinterest, pretend he hadn’t heard a word or didn’t care for poetry. This line had stuck with him though, for a reason very much unrelated to the pentameter or any of that nonsense. 

He’d been working on one of the star pieces of the exhibition - an unnamed painting featuring an angel trapped in the light of heaven and a demon trapped in the darkness of hell; apples everywhere. Crowley was working on the shadows of the demon when Aziraphale spoke. He remembered, because he’d been so startled by the reminder that he wasn’t alone that the shading around the lips very nearly became a full handlebar moustache. 

’Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,” Crowley loved it when he read like this. He’d never really seen the value of poetry until he heard it on Aziraphale’s lips. “Nor wished an Angel whom I loved a man. Dim and remote the joys of saints I see; nor envy them that heaven I lose for thee”. 

At the time Crowley had felt his heart still as the words washed over him. It fit so perfectly with the image that he couldn’t have even hoped Aziraphale would mean it in any other context, but now, as Crowley traced the lines of his eyes, he couldn’t help but wonder. 

The bell announced lunch, and suddenly it was all too soon. Too fast. 

Crowley fussed with the brushes, making sure to wash them the way Aziraphale always insisted. He left the painting in the cupboard - he’d return to it later - and grabbed his bags. It only struck him as he was leaving that he had no idea where they were going to meet. He left the studio, pulling out his phone as he walked when -

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He sounded relieved and nervous all at once, which only made Crowley relieved and nervous himself. 

“Bloody hell. Creep up on a guy, why don’t you. Stalking me, Angel?” he rolled his eyes, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to register his apathy. 

“You have paint on your-” he gestured to Crowley’s cheek, who batted at his jaw blindly before Aziraphale rolled his eyes and reached out to clean it off. Crowley watched him as he did it, revelling in whatever had gotten into him. The touch was like fire across his skin. “Wonderful. Where did you want to lunch?” 

Aziraphale’s tone was level as ever, but Crowley knew him. There was no way he was cool as a cucumber with this. This was the most flappable person he’d ever met, stood there not flapping. 

“Oh, are we doing lunch today? I must have forgotten,” he said coyly, unable to keep the smile off his face as he walked off. Aziraphale followed, totally unfazed. There was definitely something odd with him. 

“I er- I baked,” he said finally, holding up his trusty bag for life as proof. “Angel cake,”

Of course. How very Aziraphale, how utterly and inescapably charming, and how bloody typical that Crowley was fawning over the whole thing like a love struck idiot. 

“I may have packed some leftovers or something so we don’t die of vitamin deficiency,” he rolled his eyes, desperately trying to look totally put out. To the one passerby (Mrs. Martin, taught drama, was destined for much bigger things than this, unappreciated here and at home, but at least the roller derby girls loved her) the look Crowley was currently shooting Aziraphale was a mix of forced apathy and total heart eyes that all together made him look a little bit constipated. 

Crowley led the way to the park they’d chatted at all those weeks ago. He’d come here a few times since, but there’d been a terrible few weeks between other students discovering its existence and it getting slightly too cold to be hanging out outside that it had been much too busy to bother with. Today, however, it was perfect. Nippy but not cold, and more importantly, empty. 

Heading for a bench, Crowley found the space beside him suddenly unoccupied (which he’d gotten rather used to walking with Aziraphale, who was distractible by just about everything). As if from nowhere, Aziraphale pulled out a tartan picnic blanket and actually draped it on the ground. Crowley stared at him, not usually one for sitting on the floor. 

“Don’t give me that look. It’s authentic,” Aziraphale insisted, settling down. Authentic of what, Crowley didn’t bother asking. He just perched on the edge of blanket and dumped the bag of sushi in between them. The look on Aziraphale’s face when he saw the sushi was worth the hour detour. “Leftovers, eh?” 

“Found it on the street,” he brushed it off. “Stole it from a bin,”

“My favourite, as well. How fortunate you found this just lying around,” 

“Very,” Crowley shrugged, reaching for his own order. 

They ate quietly, neither really wanting to say Something, so they settled on saying nothing. Occasionally he’d listen to Aziraphale’s contented little sighs as he ate, and spend the next few seconds pulling himself back together. He also very quickly discovered one great joy that the ground had over a bench: unlimited lounging opportunities. He found himself fidgeting, sprawling, laying and stretching. It was quite wonderful, even more so when he caught his companion staring at the stretch of his stomach peeking out beneath his T-shirt. 

“Okay, Angel?” he teased, very much unable to stop himself. 

“You never answered my question,” Aziraphale said suddenly. Crowley knew a diversion tactic when he heard one, but even then he was worried he’d missed Aziraphale saying something as he stretched. 

“What question?”

“On our first walk. When we were first here,” 

“Oh,” Crowley understood the question, but not why it was so important to Aziraphale. “It’s really nothing,”

“Now you simply can’t say that. You can tell me. I won’t be offended if it’s dreadful. I’d just like to know,”

“No you wouldn’t,” he assured the other boy. It was moments like these he was especially glad of his sunglasses. 

“I really want to, Crowley,” he begged.

“No,” 

“Please,” weaponised doe eyes should be illegal, Crowley thought. He stared up into Azirpahale’s pleading face. He didn’t have a strong will power on the best of days, but this was just unfair. “I’ll give you cake? It’s rather lovely,” 

“Fine,” Crowley found himself sitting up, securing the sunglasses into place. “You want to know what I meant?” Aziraphale nodded. “Are you certain?” the underlying tone of his voice was the rattle of a snake’s tail, the growling in the throat of a lion, the silence before the storm. 

“Yes, Crowley,” 

He considered lying, but there was no use. For someone who was supposedly doing it all the time he was actually no good at it, and in any-case he really didn’t want to. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, and the way it felt to say that thing out-loud was the same way drug addicts felt getting their next hit: total relief before total ruin, but he was so cross that he was having to say it. Like Aziraphale should already know the contents of his dumb heart already. “Utterly fantastically gorgeous. Not that you weren’t cute when we were younger, but when I saw you in Philosophy… I knew I should have been worried that you’d make my life hell for whatever reason, but I couldn’t look away-”

“I-” Azirphale tried to interrupt, but he had nothing really to say and Crowley had opened the flood gates and had absolutely no control over them now. 

“And then talking to you, it felt like the first time someone could talk back to me. And I know I’m hard to keep up with and I go to fast for you - hell, this is probably the last thing in the world I should be doing right now - but you can keep up, Aziraphale. It was intoxicating - being near you - being in your presence was like I was home again. Like I was almost good and that I wasn’t broken. It was like one day you’d suddenly realised that you were this amazing person, and all that uncertainty just melted away into-”

Crowley, in all his passion, had been getting closer and closer to Aziraphale, but for all his inability to stop the flood, he caught himself. Inches away from Aziraphale, but inches he couldn’t take. He was leaning across the entire width of the picnic blanket, sushi containers crushed and pushed aside by his momentum. That wasn’t a surprise; Crowley knew he was a bad person - too bad, too fast- this kind of thing was to be expected from him. 

Azriaphale on the other hand…

He stood (sat) firm against Crowley’s advances, unwavering. When Crowley stole an inch, Aziraphale let him. When Crowley spoke, spilling the ugly contents of his soul into the world, Aziraphale listened. When Crowley’s lips came inches away from his, his eyes dropped slightly to the other boy’s mouth and he waited.

But there was only so long a boy could wait. 

Crowley, fully intending to stop himself, to pull back and give Aziraphale the time he had asked for, was quite taken aback when he felt Aziraphale press his lips against his own. 

He’d spent so long pretending this wasn’t something he wanted and then so long imagining he’d ever have the courage to do this, that he’d never really gotten to the point of wondering what it would be like. It wouldn’t have mattered: it would have taken approximately 467 years, 8 months and 7 hours of Buddhist meditation for Crowley to have been prepared for how right it felt to be kissing Aziraphale in that moment. 

It was as though the oxygen was pulled out of him and then forced back in within a second. He couldn’t believe there had ever been a time he hadn’t kissed Aziraphale. It was unpracticed, yes, but certain. It was one of the most natural things in the world. It wasn’t even a deep kiss by all measures of the word, but he lost himself in it; lost himself in the small moans Aziraphale breathed against his mouth. 

Aziraphale pulled back first. Crowley probably could have stuck at that for the rest of the day, so it was probably for the best but he still wasn’t happy about it. He pulled back, and looked up to Aziraphale. His eyes were steady, and he reached out, gently pulling Crowley’s sunglasses off and tucking them away. Crowley let him, scared to move lest he startle Aziraphale off.

“I’ve always loved your eyes, you know?” he said fondly. Crowley couldn’t remember a time anyone had spoken to him fondly before. He couldn’t remember a kiss that hadn’t tasted like cigarettes, alcohol or both. He couldn’t remember being looked at the way Aziraphale was looking at him right now. He was completely lost in it. “And you’re wrong. You’re not bad or broken. You are so very good, Anthony,” 

It was the first time in years he hadn’t hated hearing that name. 

An alarm (the default alarm that everyone had that triggered a great stress and anger in the whole human population) rang, saving him a response to that. Both boys jumped, and Crowley was suddenly able to move. He shifted back to his side of the picnic blanket, the alarm reminding them where they were. 

“Ancient Religions and Philosophy waits for no man,” Aziraphale said sadly, shutting the alarm up. Crowley was amazed he knew how to set the damn thing. 

“It’s waited a thousand years already. Let it wait another day,” he groaned.

“No, remember your 70% attendance. If you skip now, you won’t be able to skip later when you really want to,” Aziraphale chided.

Crowley stood, unwilling to say goodbye to the lovely picnic blanket but impressed at Aziraphale’s logic. It would look suspicious if they were both absent from class. Quiet park kisses were one thing, skipping class together was a whole other step that he was certain Aziraphale wouldn’t take lightly, and in any case, Crowley couldn’t help but think of the possibilities behind ‘skip later’. 

So they packed up, and headed out of the park. It wasn’t a long walk to the humanities wing, but Crowley spent the first two minutes as they left the park wondering if he should grab Aziraphale’s hand or not. He could tell Aziraphale was thinking exactly the same thing and he kept stuffing his hands into his pockets, and then dropping this to his side, only to hide them away seconds later. For his part, Crowley had decided that not being in physical contact with Aziraphale was just about the worst thing ever, but until the other boy was sure he wouldn’t push it. His mind was made up when, as they exited the gates to the park, he spotted a sea of black across the street, loitering and staring right at Crowley and Aziraphale. 

“I’ll see you in class, okay?” he mumbled to Aziraphale. He couldn’t bring himself to look back at him, scared of what they might give away if he was to see the hurt in his eyes. 

“Is everything-” Aziraphale started. 

“Everything’s fine, Angel. I just gotta do something,” he said, voice low and quiet - barely audible beneath the roar of the London roads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: plot plans, chapter breakdowns, general structure.   
> Aziraphale: No. Kissing now please. 
> 
> This chapter wrote itself and I won't apologise. You will now notice that this will be an extra chapter longer than anticipated, as this chapter was going to be about 6k if I kept going. Getting into the endzone here folks. 
> 
> The poem Aziraphale reads to Crowley is Eloisa to Abelard by Alexander Pope. 
> 
> Please do let me know what you think of the chapter! I've just discovered that I can reply to comments, so that's exciting. 
> 
> Peace! x


	7. Too Much Love Will Kill You

As he walked away from Aziraphale, Crowley donned the costume of his own swagger. He walked into his hips, let his teeth do all the smiling, hid the slits of his eyes behind black rings of his sunglasses. It had been so long that he’d worn this skin, he hadn’t even realised he’d slipped it off until he caught himself stood naked and vulnerable and staring into the pit of hell.

“Elle! Hastur! Ligur! To what does this part of London owe the horror? Didn’t know you could cross the boundary into zone 1,” he said in a tone he was sure they’d think was a joke. 

The three of them were loitered up against a white town house which had been turned into offices. Through the closest window, Crowley could see some kind of graphic designer huffing and slamming their window closed, probably on account of the haze of smoke billowing from around them. They didn’t notice, however. Hastur and Ligur’s eyes were keenly on him, but Elle’s stared beyond him, possibly following the worried mop of curls walking away from him. He tried not to think about it.

“Crowley,” Elle buzzed sharply, their eyes turning onto him eventually. “That all looked very cosy,”

“Cosy? Nah. That guy? Cosy? Not my type. All…” he gestured a wild motion with his arms that he really hoped they would translate to something more than flapping. “-you know?” 

“Not particularly,”

“No? Well, everyone else thinks so,” Crowley assured them. “Lots of people talking about… y’know,” he flapped again. “You done something new to your hair?” 

“Cut it,” Hastur grunted. 

“Oh, very good. Looks… new,” he nodded. “Look, best be off - classes to get to,”

Crowley made to spin on his heel, but was met with a chorus of grunted laughter. 

“Since when’ve you cared about class?” 

“Yeah, goin’ soft?” That word, always that word. Soft. Soft as though it was the worst thing to be. Like edges and hardness were the only thing to aspire to. Soft like Aziraphale’s lips, which he was desperately trying not to think about right now. The more he thought of Aziraphale, the more he wanted to get rid of these idiots and just get back to bloody class, which is really not a position he thought he’d be in.

“Forgive me for not wanting to be chucked out of this place and ending up in the shithole you three won’t be graduating from,” Crowley snapped. 

The mood changed instantly. Elle slid up to Crowley, their stature so much shorter than his own, but twice as menacing. It wasn’t that he was scared of Elle, rather it was just that Elle was very scary. The step he took away from them was not fear insofar as a healthy survival instinct. 

“Crowley,” they snarled, staring up into his sunglasses. “We’re doing it tomorrow, and if I was you I’d make sure I was with us,” 

Gulp. 

“Tomorrow? Cool cool. Right. What time?” 

“Eight,” 

“Of course,” Crowley could have laughed. The fact that Elle and Gabe, different as they might be would share a sense of dramatic timing for a little art-burning was funny. Almost. “I’ll even bring the cigarettes to light off the burning symbol of anarchy, how ‘bout that?”

“Crowley,” Elle buzzed. It was a low sound, their voice - constant and warning. “Don’t bring your little friend. Wouldn’t want anyone caught in the flames,”

“You know me,” Crowley said, taking a step away from them, straightening his persona the way one tidies a rumpled jacket. “I don’t have any friends,” 

————

Aziraphale was fretting. Even he wasn’t surprised that he was fretting. In fact, if there was any surprise to be had from the situation, it would be in the limited level of fretting he was doing. That morning had really leant itself quite well to fretting, and sitting in his usual seat in a normal classroom having a fairly average discussion on the state of nature really wasn’t a suitable backdrop for everything. 

Especially because the seat on the row behind him was unbearably empty. 

So he was fretting. At first he’d been worried that Crowley would be late – Mr. Lawson was fairly lax on these things, but it wasn’t ideal. And then the clock struck the hour, and the door remained closed. At one point Newton, the plainest boy in the City of London, rushed in late, and the turning of the knob had nearly given Aziraphale a heart attack. 

It had been long enough that Aziraphale had come to terms with the fact that Crowley just wasn’t coming to class. He’d seen his friends and decided that if Aziraphale wouldn’t skip with him, then he’d just skip with them instead. He was disappointed in his friend’s dedication to his studies, that was all. 

Aziraphale, like many teenagers, was very talented at burying his head in the sand, but even he couldn’t pretend that his current state of panic was anything to do with Crowley’s attendance percentage. He wasn’t even upset about what he’d done - granted he hadn’t exactly meant to do it, but he would have been hard pressed to stop himself after Crowley’s little monologue and whole thing was just about the best thing he’d ever done. 

The thing that was truly worrying him was that Crowley was done with him now. 

Crowley wasn’t like that. He knew Crowley wasn’t like that. No matter how much he pretended he was bad or mean, he was always so gentle and kind. He tipped waiters slightly too much ‘as a prank’, he was patient and he funny in a way that was never hurtful. He was kind, not because he had always been treated kindly, but despite being treated cruelly. And Aziraphale was Aziraphale. Standard, fussy Aziraphale. 

He didn’t have bad self-esteem, per se. It was just that he knew what his brand was. Maybe a few hundred years ago he’d have been considered the ideal standard of beauty, all soft curves and bouncing curls, but not so much these days. He was thoughtful, and funny sometimes, but he also wore clothes ten years out of date and not because he could rock it. He didn’t keep up with any of the new television show, and not in some ironic post-millennial refusal. He knew who he was, and that was not someone that a person like Crowley would look twice at. 

Except, when the door flew open fifteen minutes into class, the look Crowley shot him as he entered couldn’t be anything further than done with him.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, eyes locked with Aziraphale. 

“Not to worry, take a seat,” Mr. Lawson said, as if Crowley had been speaking to him. He did what he was told regardless, and for the next hour Aziraphale could feel his gaze on the back of his head. It was stupidly comforting, and when class ended Crowley was somehow packed up and beside him before he’d grabbed his bag from beneath the desk.

“I’m sorry,” he was whispering immediately. Aziraphale looked around them - everyone was filing out of the classroom, no one paying them any heed. “I didn’t mean to worry you,”

“Haven’t, er - had your fill then?” Aziraphale said, hoping the breezy tone sounded less strained to Crowley than it did in his own head. 

By the other boy’s reaction, it appeared not. 

“Oh, Angel,” he said sadly. “No. Definitely not,” 

“Lovely,” 

They stared at each other; Aziraphale up at Crowley and Crowley down at Aziraphale. More than anything Aziraphale wanted to reach out and touch Crowley - to hold him or be held or something that felt less like being stranded at sea, without a life raft or the ability to swim. Similarly, the look he was receiving from Crowley was partially full of tenderness, but also partially suggested some rather R rated thoughts and he was caught up in it. He smiled softly.

“C’mon, Angel. You’re going to be late,” 

So he grabbed his bag (instead of Crowley’s hand), and walked out of the door, followed by his best friend.

—————————————

Bravery is an odd concept, and a trait much easier to recognise in others than in ourselves. For example; Crowley looks at Aziraphale and sees bravery in the way he allows the world to see him as soft and kind. He looks at himself and sees all the ways he is hard and horrible. Aziraphale, on the other hand, sees bravery in the shameless swagger Crowley shows to the world, never scared to stand out. He looks at himself, and sees all the ways he blends into the background. 

That day, however, Aziraphale felt something verging on courageous. 

“Gabe,” he said, briskly walking up to the boy following his Politics class. Aziraphale had just come out of Latin and had practically sprinted from the class in order to corner the taller boy. “Do you have a moment?” 

Gabe turned and looked down at Aziraphale for a fraction of the second, before returning his attention to the phone in his hand. 

“Shoot,” he said, still texting. 

Aziraphale looked between Gabe, the phone, and the gang of St Michael’s alum that surrounded them. Michael smiled widely, encouragingly, like a fox telling a rabbit the coast is clear. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“It’s about tomorrow,” he whispered conspiratorially. 

“Ah, yes. The plans are all in place,” Gabe smiled down at his phone. “It’s all very exciting,”

“Well, that’s good. It’s just, don’t you think it would be better to not do it?”

Gabe stopped texting immediately. There was a murmur of confusion from the rest of the group, before Gabe’s smile resumed its 100watt glare, and his attention focused deep onto Aziraphale. 

“Not do it?” he chuckled. 

“Yes, it’s an option isn’t it? I just thought, maybe we could have a chat to this young artist and explain the problem,”

“A chat?”

“No better way to fight ignorance than with information, surely? Would it not be better for us, and by extension the community, if we found a way out of this that didn’t result in a fire?” He’d been running these lines over in his head all afternoon. No one could disagree with that. 

“Fire?” Gabe jumped on the last word in a way that made Aziraphale’s stomach drop. “We never said fire. Did we ever say fire?” 

Urie shook his head. 

All eyes were on Aziraphale now.

“Inspired, Azi!” Gabe clapped him on the back with the hand not gripping his phone. “Michael, sort out the fire, okay? What a good plan,” 

“Actually, my plan was -” he muttered, trying to bring it back around.

“Azi,” Gabe stopped him, tone stern now. The ghost of his old Head Boy badge gleamed in his eyes. “Walk with me,” 

Gabe scattered the rest of the group with a nod, pocketed his phone, and gestured to Aziraphale to join him. Regretting the steps before he took them, Aziraphale followed suit. He needed to do this. He needed to do it for Crowley. 

His brain was desperately clinging onto anything that might make Gabe listen. He could threaten to tell a teacher, could tell Crowley to just hide the art, could-

“Aziraphale. I know about AJ,” 

If Gabe had been half an ounce crueler he would have waited for a stuttered response from Aziraphale. Instead, he let Aziraphale’s jaw slacken in shock, a fierce blush redden his face, and half formed arguments stutter into nothingness before speaking again. 

“The Lord sends all of us challenges, Azi. Temptation, is by its very nature tempting, trust me I get it. If it wasn’t there’d be no test, and everyone would deserving of Her love,”

“We are all children of-” was all he could cling to. 

Gabe led the way through the corridor, speaking in a tone that sounded reasonable in the same way an American sounded like they were doing a British accent; zone out just a bit and it’s right there, but think too hard about it and it doesn’t sit right. 

“My point is that whatever you’re feeling - whatever AJ has convinced you that you’re feeling - there can be forgiveness. You want to be a minister, correct?” 

“That was the plan,” he mumbled. 

“Well then you’ve got to say goodbye to this whole thing. You’re a good person, Zira but Anthony is trouble. I’m a forgiving guy and you know that I only want the best for you, but it would be a shame if the rest of the community found out about this. You get my drift?” 

“I’m starting to,”

“So let’s have a little cathartic burning tomorrow, and then we can all move on with our lives! Kapeesh?”

“Ka-what?” but it didn’t matter to Gabe. His phone was back in his hands already, and he was waving over Michael and Urie. 

“Great. See you tomorrow, Azi!” 

Aziraphale stared after them, the crowd thinning all around him. His mind was on the last chance that Gabe had given him, a chance he hadn’t thought was possible, and whether or not he even wanted it after all. 

———— 

The studio was busier than Crowley had ever seen it outside of class hours. All of the other scholars, the ones who had chased a scholarship for the ‘prestige’ rather than necessity, were putting the final touches on their pieces. Crowley was working intently on his latest piece, which was coming along well, but no matter how hard he worked all he could hear was -

“Mother said I really should put in some face time. I have better supplies than this in my home studio, of course, but she thought it would be good for them to see me working, but there’s no one even here,” 

“I threw these bits together. Barely worked on them at all. People who have to put in effort every day really should just quit trying,” 

“My dad’s a friend of the main donor anyway, so she’s already seen most of my pieces. She said this one was particularly inspired,” 

“What’s that smell? Is someone cooking? That’s so rude, don’t they know I’m dieting to fit in my dress? Ugh,”

“Where’s Crowley going?” 

“Wow, slam the door much?” 

After that, their voices faded quite substantially and he could finally hear himself think. His thoughts immediately jumped to how good the corridor leading between the studio and the cooking rooms smelt and he was giddy with it. 

Through the small window in the door, Crowley could see Aziraphale fussing over a tray of something. His hair kept falling into his face, and he kept batting it away with his wrists, hands too full and messy with icing to do the job. The more he looked, however, the more he noticed that the lines of concentration looked less about the biscuits and more like sadness. 

He knocked, gently, and let himself into the room. 

“Hi,” he said shallowly. 

That it was their first time alone since the park didn’t go over his head, but there was something about the closed off expression on Aziraphale’s face that told Crowley it would be best not to push it. He didn’t want to go too fast.

“Smells good,” he smiled to lighten the mood. He took another few steps in, nothing too close but even then Aziraphale moved away from him. He turned away, fussing with the icing bag in a way that Crowley was sure was unnecessary. “Something wrong?” 

“No,” he choked. Even with a view of his back, Crowley could tell that was a lie. 

“Something’s wrong,”

“No,”

“Aziraphale,” the other boy turned. 

“What’s that?” he pointed at the canvas he was holding. As much as Crowley pulled the old change the topic trick, he didn’t love when it happened back to him.

“My latest piece,” he said, hoping at least that the painting would cheer him up. He always seemed to like looking at his paintings anyway. 

Crowley held the painting up, and Aziraphale’s expression blanked completely. 

“It’s me,” 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Might’ve given you an additional halo, but s’not exactly a stretch, is it Angel?” 

Crowley stared into Aziraphale’s face, watching as his eyes took in the image. There were small changes - the lip shook then the jaw hardened, the eyes stared and then blinked and looked away. Every second that passed, Aziraphale built up his own hard edged barriers between the two of them. Crowley watched it happen, like blasphemy against his soul.

He didn’t need to be a genius to guess what had happened. 

“Was it Gabe?” 

A tiny crack in the defenses, and Aziraphale bit his lip. Nod.

“Did he hurt you?”

Shake. 

“Does he know?” 

Pause.

Nod. 

“Fuck,”

Nod. 

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, wanting to make it all better. Wanting, more than anything else to -

“Then let’s just leave. Together,”

“Leave? Together?” a hint of hope shone out through the cracks in Aziraphale’s hardness. Crowley felt it light him up. 

“Yeah. I don’t need this school. Nor do you. There are other schools. Places we can go where no one will find us. Lots of schools out there in London,”

“My family… My community…” 

“It’s fine. I have enough saved up from working commissions that we can rent a place. I’ll keep painting, you can get a job at that bookshop you’re always blabbering on about. Let’s just do it,” 

Nothing about what Crowley was saying felt brave, because for him it felt easy. It felt like the right thing to do - the only thing. 

“No,” Aziraphale said quietly, and then again but louder. “No, Anthony,”

“What? Why not? We don’t even have to… we can just be friends,” 

“Friends?” Aziraphale looked like he had truly lost the plot at that. “I don’t even like you,” 

“You do,”

“No,” Aziraphale said, but the more he said it the less certain he sounded. “No. I can’t. I - You’re trouble, Anthony. I can’t,”

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, covered in icing sugar and flour. That last crack in the defenses had been boarded up, letting nothing out or nothing in. In the resounding silence he could hear the other scholars mumbling as they left the studio, leaving them all but alone in the building.

Anything else he could have fought back on, could have disagreed with. Anything else could see him ten minutes away from tasting the sugar straight off Aziraphale’s lips after they’d talked things through. Anything else and he’d have stayed there, stubborn to reassure Aziraphale. But he couldn’t disagree with that, couldn’t fight his own corner. So without a word, he turned on his foot and headed out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus my heart was shattered.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! I've also had some vague plans of a few one shots around this world - is this something people would be interested in? 
> 
> Thanks so much for the love and kindness in this community. The best omens are obviously the friends we made along the way.
> 
> xx


	8. Bohemian Rhapsody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley spends most of this chapter lying on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look at that, I added another chapter. This was nearing on being about 6000 words so we're still another chapter from done - sorry kiddos. 
> 
> Just a quick minor TW for Coming Out in this chapter. I don't think it's too much, but please do look after yourselves.

Of all the holy names to give a child, the parents of Aziraphale’s minister, Metatron, might have gone a bit too far. Perhaps it was the ostracization that had met him everywhere he met that pushed him into the church - surrounded by believers who would see his name, a school-yard joke to others, as a symbol of his holy message. Perhaps he really did believe himself a messenger of God. 

He had nothing on his cousin, Sandalphon, though. 

“My child,” Metatron welcomed in the same way cold callers say hello. “Why have you sought me out?”

Aziraphale entered the office and sat on his hands to stop them twitching nervously. He hadn’t exactly anticipated coming here. It was late, he could see that etched behind the minister’s smile and his stolen glances at the clock. He’d been out walking holes into his shoes, thinking over everything and was no closer to answers than he was hours ago when he crumbled in Crowley’s wake. 

“I have some questions,” Aziraphale started. “I’m facing what you might call a bit of a moral quandary,”

“Right,” Metatron said. “Well, what is it?” 

“Well the whole thing is quite complex,” Metatron shot Aziraphale a tired look. “So, first thing’s first. Let’s say there’s a… not a painting. A poem then, and it’s depicting of some of the more er… fine… some homosexual themes. And say someone from the community wanted to destroy that painting- poem, is that wrong?” 

“My child, if you want to destroy the painting you don’t need my permission. God guides you, God be with you,” Metatron said, beginning to stand. 

“Okay so, would it be wrong to stop someone destroying it?” 

“Oh you’re not done. No? I don’t know,” he blinked the tiredness out of his eyes. 

“Okay. How about when the bible says to love thy neighbour… even the sinners…” even he could feel himself babbling. 

“Yes, Aziraphale?”

“Can love be a sin? And coveting, how does one avoid something like that?” 

“It’s really rather late,” 

“Yes. Quite. I’m sorry,” 

So there he was, stood shivering on a London street, twenty minutes past hope that he’d made the right decision, watching the world pass by him. He’d come seeking answers, and as his minister brushed him out of his office in favour of a night cap and late night rerun of Doc Martin, he’d found them.

Looking down, his own face stared back at him from the canvas in his hands. He hadn’t quite worked out if Crowley had intended to leave the painting behind. As much as he hoped it was just a case that he’d forgotten it in the heat of the hurt, Aziraphale wasn’t so sure. The eyes that stared back at him where so much like his own, but they were burning fury. The Aziraphale that Crowley had painted wore an expression of bravery. He looked down at it with the eyes of a coward. 

That was novel, he thought. He’d never done a brave thing in his life. He took every raw piece of himself and hid it behind excuse after excuse. And for what? To be a fraud to the people he loved, to be unhappier than he could be, to have driven away the only person that knew every manner of his soul and stayed there all the same. The Aziraphale in the painting wouldn’t stand for that, and he knew, as he took one step and then the next, that he couldn’t look at Crowley in the eyes until he didn’t either. 

————-

London is a filthy city. One can find all manner of disgusting things on the streets of London: piss, vomit, bankers. As it was, Crowley felt quite at home amongst the excrement, his legs dangling off the canal wall as he gazed up into the smog filled sky. The Velvet Underground crooned a song that frankly may have been written about Aziraphale in his ears, on repeat for hours. 

He was cold and he was hungry, and he was very aware that he was being a touch pathetic. 

How long he’d been there, he didn’t know, but he was just about ready to sit up and drag the remaining scraps of his dignity to some place warm when he felt a presence nearby. Okay, it wasn’t a presence, so much as a nudging kick ramming into his ribs.

“Oi,” he said, tugging the headphones from his ears and sitting up. “What the hell?” 

“Crowley,” Elle said, standing over him. Hastur and Ligur flanked them.

“Question,” he said, rolling his headphones into a ball and shoving them into his pocket. He was forcing a tone of calm collectedness, at least as long as it took for him to get away from dangling into the canal. “Did you agree to come over here in v-formation, or is that just an innate thing your self-esteem has no control over?” 

To anyone else, that might not have been the best way to avoid a punching, but they were so concerned he’d gotten all soft he decided he’d show them how much of a prick he could be. Ligur and Hastur glared daggers at him as they tried to work out what the insult meant, and Crowley for his part was just about to stand, unfurling himself from the bed he’d made himself in the grass.

Elle, however, shook their head.

“Nuh-uh,” they said, dead eyed, jaw set like steel. Crowley stayed put. “We learnt something interesting today, didn’t we boys?” 

“We did?” Hastur said, earning him an elbow to the ribs from Ligur. Elle stood at the helm, their eyes rolling so far into the back of their head Crowley was half certain they could see the others through their skull.

“The thing… the art thing,” Ligur hissed. 

“Oh, yeah - we did,” Hastur returned to his best scowl. “Very interesting”

“You been on Youtube? There’s lots of educational stuff on there these days. I normally get distracted by the gardening videos, y’know, but-”

“Shut up,” Elle spat. Crowley, not really knowing what else to do, did as he was told. “We got a message from Dagon,” 

Ugh, Crowley flinched mentally. Dagon straight up sucked. 

“Great, how is she?” he said out loud in a voice familiar to all adults who had ever had to enquire over someone they detested. 

“She had some interesting things to say about you,” Ligur said. “Said you was the one painting all those god pictures,” 

“Said there’s quite the resemblance between the pictures and that little god boy you’re running around with,” 

“Says you’re soft as they come, and all for a god boy,” 

They closed in on him - just an inch; the space between them and the brown water of the canal shrinking even further. They had death in their eyes, and Crowley didn’t really fancy being around once they’d worked out what they wanted to do to him. For all their lack of intelligence, he’d seen them get quite creative with people they didn’t even have a personal vendetta against. He didn’t fancy his chances.

His plan formulated in his head, quickly grasping at movie clichés and sassy one liners, before realising the thing he most needed was a distraction - a few seconds of time before the space beneath his feet vanished. The miracles must have been on Crowley’s side, because in that moment - 

‘Mamma mia let me go. Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me-’

Freddie Mercury wailed in his pocket as it began to ring. Elle and the gang exchanged looks of confusion as the song continued to blast. 

“Sorry, should probably get this,” Crowley said with a calm smirk, as though he wasn’t two seconds from being drowned in the canal. He looked down at the screen, wondering who he had to thank for this little bit of luck. Fuck. 

Several considerations should have been taken in that moment. The first was that he really didn’t have the time to get distracted, especially not by ‘the god boy’ in question. Alternatively, this was quite a good distraction, and if being on the phone would stop them beating on him for just another few seconds then that was great. Then there was the whole argument - should Crowley ignore the call on principal? Did he want to ignore the call? Alternatively, did he want to reassure Aziraphale that he would talk, just maybe not right now? 

Except Crowley didn’t have the time to do the math, so he just did what he wanted to do. He picked up the phone. 

“Hey, now isn’t a great time,” 

“Oh dear, I know I said some things and I’m -” he could hear Aziraphale’s fretting expression, but even then there was something else underneath it. Crowley didn’t have the time to worry about it - Elle was glaring him down and his time was about to come. 

“Really not great. With some mates right now. Chat later,” and he hung up the phone, wishing there was some way to convey ‘I’m a bit hurt but I do want to talk to you but also I’m about to get dunked in the Camden canal so I need to stop that happening before we have this conversation,’ in his tone. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

“We were saying-” 

“Oh yeah. Look, I hate to leave when it’s getting interesting, but I gotta head,” 

“You can’t ‘head’. We’re here to teach you a lesson,” 

“No thanks. See you chaps around,” he said with a flourish. 

Elle dove in for him, backed up by the other two guarding their sides so that there was literally no way for Crowley to dash past them and towards the path. 

Luckily, Crowley wasn’t aiming forwards. With a jump made possible only by his freakishly long legs, Crowley bound backwards towards the river, finding himself landing on the hull of the canal boat he’d been watching creep closer for two minutes. The stag do manning the ship cheered as he joined them. A guy dressed as a vintage answering machine handed him a beer. 

“Don’t ask,” he said glumly. “What about you?” 

Crowley stared towards the other three who stared dumbfounded at him from the shore, calculating the risk of missing the jump or getting into a fight on a stag boat. 

“Don’t ask,” he said, taking a sip of the beer, placing it down on bench and sussing out his next move. 

————

Ten minutes later and Crowley was safely in the drivers’ seat of the Bentley, pulling into traffic without much regard for anything other than getting out of there. The main problem with London traffic being that one can often walk places quicker than driving them. He hoped that, as suspected, Elle, Hastur and Ligur were all totally blind to the beauty of his vehicle and wouldn’t be able to distinguish between it and a common black cab. The more he drove the safer he felt like that was the case. Bastards. 

As soon as he was outside of their usual haunt area he pulled over into a side road, scrambling to get his phone out of his very tight pockets. A bit of wiggling in his seat later, and he pulled up his recent calls, pressing redial before he could even think about what he might want to say. 

Ring, ring. 

‘This is the answering phone of’ ’Ohh.. Er, is that where I say my name? Aziraphale then I suppose!’ ‘Please leave a message after the beep’

Beep. 

And fuck if his heart didn’t leap at that. 

He tried again, hoping that the fact it had gone straight to voicemail was a mistake and not because he was being ignored. 

Ring, ring. 

‘This is the answering phone of’ ’Ohh.. Er, is that where I say my name? Aziraphale then I suppose!’

And if Crowley rang a few more times (just to check), and if he let Aziraphale’s clumsy little message replay a few times, then who was going to stop him? 

Looking at the time, Crowley couldn’t be sure that Aziraphale was ignoring him or if he’d just gone to sleep. He didn’t even put it past the other boy to wander off without his phone. Aziraphale wasn’t one for being tied down to something as banal and useful as a mobile. Every time he replied to a text Crowley was shocked he even knew how to do that, so maybe he wasn’t being ignored. 

Only one thing for it then, he thought to himself, chucking the phone onto the passenger seat with a thud. Finding Aziraphale’s house wasn’t hard, but it did involve driving back on himself and through the center of London. There was a moment as he was driving as fast as the Bentley could manage down past Regents Park that he spotted a group he’d thought were his pursuers, but it turned out to just be some run-of-the-mill cosplayers. He’d never been so happy to see cosplayers in his life.

Before he was even ready for the conversation, Crowley parked up on the road outside Aziraphale’s house. He stared through the window at the old Edwardian house - white facade and dangerously big windows. He’d been in there before; years ago when they were just kids who hung out and did homework together. They’d sat in his room, the one overlooking the road, staring down at the people walking by wondering if any of them were spies or celebrities. 

Sometimes, they were right. 

Gazing up at the window, he half expected to see Aziraphale there, gold face lit from the street light, staring down at him, but all he saw was darkness within.

Crowley gripped the steering wheel. He could drive off right now, and go back to the flat. He could sleep - get some food - hell, he could leave London all together. Who was going to stop him? The problem being that the whole running away thing was a lot less appealing now that the road lay ahead of him and his passenger seat held only his silent phone. 

With a final groan to himself (a necessity to remind himself that he didn’t want to be doing this) he crawled out of the Bentley. 

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, hoping that the sound would be like a prayer on his lips and he’d appear in front of him. That’s how prayers worked right? Or was that just Beetlejuice? “Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Where the bloody hell are you, you idiot?” 

No luck. 

Crowley looked at the ground around him. It was late now - no one was on the streets, which was a blessing, considering what he was about to do. There was nothing more humiliating than lobbing rocks at his lover’s window like a dumb Shakespearian character. He picked up some smaller pebbles - weighty enough to fly but nothing that was going to smash a window. Then he threw them. 

Pat, pat, pat. 

He didn’t want to be too loud - God knows what Aziraphale’s parents’ reaction to seeing him lurking around their son’s window would be. Didn’t bare thinking on, really. So Crowley tried again, selecting only the smallest rocks and giving them a chuck.

“W’asappenin?” a little voice said from the now-open window. The mop of blonde curls made Crowley’s heart jump but it wasn’t Aziraphale. The part of his brain that needed sleep and food and water (y’know, the whole thing) wondered if the 11 year old Crowley was reminiscing about had just come to life at the window, but when he blinked he came to his senses.

This must be his brother. He’d been practically a baby the last time Crowley had seen him. 

“Er -” he stammered. “I’m looking for Aziraphale?” 

“Oh,” the kid again. He sounded sad. “He left,”

“Left? When?”

“Tonight I suppose,” the kid blinked. “You his boyfriend?” 

“What?” 

“Mother and father found out he has a boyfriend so he left,” 

Fuck, Crowley thought.

“Fuck,” Crowley said. “Where?” 

“Dunno. Didn’t say,” the kid said. “Will you tell him to come home?” 

“Er - if I can,” he shuffled awkwardly. “Thanks, kiddo,”

“G’night Zira’s boyfriend,” 

————

Crowley was, for the second time in his life, the first person to class the next morning. He hadn’t slept a wink, wore the same clothes as yesterday, and was surviving off energy drinks that tasted like batteries and an overpriced protein bar. He stood in the corridor waiting for Aziraphale to come around the corner, hoping that everything had been a dream. Hope was an odd look on him. 

He took his seat in class, realising that this was the first time he’d seen Aziraphale’s seat empty. He spent the first thirty minutes of the lesson staring at the door and the second half staring at his phone. Absolutely nothing Mr. Lawson was saying even registered as English to him, so luckily when picked on for an answer he was saved the trouble of responding by Anathema piping up:

“His aura is in turmoil, Mr Lawson. He’s not going to be able to answer that,” - which, y’know, fair enough. He let his head fall onto the table for the rest of class. 

He even went to his next few lessons, hoping that maybe Aziraphale would show up there to find him. When that didn’t happen and the bell rang for lunch, Crowley decided to lean into the turmoil, popping into Tesco for the cheapest bottle of wine he could find and then beelining straight to their park. 

It was so cold and damp no one in their right minds was sitting out there today, but Crowley sprawled himself on the sodden grass where a stupid tartan blanket should be, drinking cheap wine from the bottle. His mind ran over the same thoughts again and again, all landing on the same thought: Aziraphale was gone. Aziraphale would never want to talk to him again. Aziraphale was gone. 

“Oh, my dear,” a voice said, and suddenly the rain was no longer dripping onto his sunglasses. Crowley fumbled for them, pulling them off his face with a groan. As he looked up, he saw what his drunken state could only describe as an angel, holding an umbrella over his sprawled form. “Are you okay?” 

“I lost my best friend,” he moped.

“Oh,” the angel said. “I’m so sorry to hear that,”

When Crowley looked up again, the figure was settling in beside him in the mud, umbrella still held firmly over him. He blinked. 

“Are you drunk?” the figure asked. Crowley nodded pathetically. “My dear, I really am so dreadfully sorry,” 

That struck Crowley as weird. He blinked again, letting his eyes expose to Aziraphale sat beneath the umbrella, looking frightfully worried. The wine in his system bubbled at the sight. 

“My fault,” Crowley shrugged. “M’trouble. Your parentsss found out. Ssstupid Gabe. Cuz he hatesss me, pro’ly,” 

“Well, no actually, that’s not quite right,” Aziraphale fretted. “Dear, will you please sit up and drink this?” 

Aziraphale held out a flask of something. Crowley, even a drunk and hopelessly miserable Crowley, would have done just about anything Aziraphale wanted, even if he was fairly certain he was a ghost in that moment. Sitting up, he took the flask, and was immediately thankful for the warmth it emanated. He took a sip, to discover that it was a delightful cup of scolding tea. 

“Gabe didn’t tell my parents,” Aziraphale said. Crowley blinked at him in response, mouth too full of tea to even consider responding. “I did,”

Gulp.

“You-”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I had spent far too long worrying about what other people thought of me that I failed to truly be myself, and then I met you and it was all good. Great, even. So yesterday I decided that if lying about who I am was going to hurt people I love, then the people who love me were going to have to become accustomed to the truth,” 

Crowley felt the word love wash over him like a tsunami, but Aziraphale seemed to have barely noticed it.

“I told them and walked out the door before they could say another word. Stayed the night at the bookshop, but didn’t have a phone charger or anything,” 

“Your clothes…” 

“Yes, rather spiffy aren’t they? Mr. Robbins lent them to me. I think he might be onto something,” 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s outfit and really struggled to marry it to the word spiffy. He was wearing a bow tie, a thread bare waistcoat, and a ridiculous jacket - the whole look was like a paint sample from the beige collection, about sixty years or more out of date, and yet for some reason his heart swelled eight sizes when he took in the sight. 

It was only when Crowley, wine-addled and sleep deprived as he was, reached over and pulled Aziraphale into himself, that he was truly convinced that he wasn’t some figment of his imagination or a trick of the light. The confusion and hesitation in Aziraphale melted away instantly, and they sat like that; three hours away from the end of Crowley’s art, huddled beneath an umbrella as rain pattered down upon the garden around them, safe and together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on the 'coming out' - I tried really hard to get across that Azi does this because he wants to and felt ready to do it. If anyone is in a situation similar to this in anyway and you don't feel comfortable or safe to do so, please please don't feel like you have to at all. Do what you gotta do, look after yourself. Sometimes being true to yourself just means getting through a bad situation. 
> 
> So, probably only one chapter left - although I've definitely thought that before. We'll see.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I actually really enjoyed writing this one once I got into it. I'm gonna miss these boys when the story is done. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> xx


	9. The Show Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels and demons assemble

“My dear,” Aziraphale said eventually, stirring them both from the embrace. Crowley’s muffled response of ‘mmm’ lit him up from the inside. “I really do hate to say it, but don’t we have some art to save?” 

“‘Suppose so,” Crowley grumbled. 

Crowley untangled his limbs from their place around him, and the cold instantly burned the areas left bare. He wanted to say he’d changed his mind and return to the embrace, but Crowley was rubbing the sleep from his eyes beneath his sunglasses and wobbling as he tried to stand.

“First thing’s first, we’re getting you some water,” Aziraphale said, jumping to his feet and offering Crowley his spare hand. The rain was still falling down on them, and the umbrella was barely helping. 

Sobering Crowley up in the corner of a busy Pret proved to be quite a bit funnier than Aziraphale might have anticipated. He insisted on the two of them sitting on the same side of the bench, dropped his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder and sipped the water he’d purchased with a grimace. 

“Dun’ like water. Want coffee,” 

“You can have coffee when you’ve finished your water,” Aziraphale promised for the third time. Crowley tried to down the whole bottle, before remembering-

“Dun’ like water,” and the whole thing started again. 

By 7.30pm Crowley may not have been totally sober but he was at least sober adjacent. His second coffee of the evening seemed to have perked him right up, along with the promise that once it was all done they’d get sushi. It was with a grim sense of doom, that they trudged the familiar streets to the Arts Building of The London Academy of Science and the Arts. They arrived at the main entrance in deafening silence. At least the rain had ceased. 

Inside the building was all but empty, with the exception of a few teachers ‘grading papers’, a few teachers grading papers, and the security guard making the rounds. 

“No sign of them yet,” Crowley said. Even through the dark of his sunglasses, Aziraphale could see his all too familiar walls building up around him. He could only hope that the walls could encase him too. 

He spoke, as people often do, much too quickly. 

“Well, look at this,” a dark haired person drawled theatrically as they emerged from the shadows, two more of Crowley’s friends in tow. “Didn’t I say not to bring the god boy?” 

“God boy?” Aziraphale muttered, frankly more disturbed at the syntax than the poorly concealed threat. 

“Not now, Angel,” Crowley said to Aziraphale before raising his voice for the newcomers. “I’m not here to help,”

“Is that so?” the white haired boy said with a smirk. “Well we don’t like people who aren’t true to their word, do we?” 

“No, we don’t,” the toadish one responded. 

“Azi, Azi, Azi,” another voice joined the fray. Staring down the alley to the right, lit by the yellow embers of the setting sun, was Gabe and his cronies. “I thought we had a little discussion about the company you keep?” 

His sneer shot past Aziraphale as it turned to Crowley, and as he began to open his mouth to say something Aziraphale could only assume was going to be horrid, he instead found himself speaking. 

“Sorry Gabriel, but I don’t actually give a fuck,” he said venomously. “Oh, and my name is Aziraphale,”

Gabe’s face dropped into a vision of surprise. Aziraphale, who had only ever cursed three times in his life, knew Gabe had never heard such a thing. He’d also likely never heard anyone standing up to him either. As much as his shock was filled with hatred, behind him Crowley vibrated with a shock closer to giddiness.

“Aziraphale,” he said, voice high pitched and excited. “I can’t believe you just said that!” 

“Sorry, but who the fuck are you?” the first of Crowley’s mates said to Gabe.

“My name is Gabriel,” he said, looking down with distaste. “And you are?”

“Elle,” they said up at him. 

“Well, Elle I’m sure you and your… friends have things to be getting on with, so if you don’t mind-”

“No, if you don’t mind we’re going to burn this building down,”

Gabe and Elle were close now; they’d be nose to nose if it wasn’t for the height difference. Gabe’s eyes lit up as they spoke, and all of a sudden he gestured for them to follow him away from the rest of the staring groups for a private chat. Aziraphale couldn’t really see the point - he was still able to pick up some whispered phrases of “we’re doing that too,” “hate AJ? Me too!” “dunno about teaming up with the god squad,” “dunno about teaming up with goths,”.

As this was going on, the members of each respective group stood around waiting for whatever discussions were talking place to finish. Toady and Blondey lurked in the shadows, glaring at Crowley and Aziraphale. Michael and Urie did the same from the other side. In between it all, Aziraphale and Crowley stood with their backs to the Arts Building, barely a foot apart, unsure as to what they were even intending on doing. 

“Great, it’s sorted,” Gabe said with the smile of a politician, turning back to the group to announce whatever it was that they had sorted when Elle spoke instead.

“We’re teaming up with these idiots in the shared goal of destroying this terrible God loving art and this crap building,” 

Gabe stared at Elle as though they had ripped the thunder right out of his hands. 

“Actually,” he interrupted. “We are teaming up with you idiots in the shared goal of destroying this God hating, crime against Christianity art, and this den of sodomy,” 

“Actually,” Crowley entered the fray. “We won’t be having any of that. Bugger off or I’ll chuck this brick at you,”

Aziraphale turned on his heel to see Crowley stood there wielding a brick. He had absolutely no idea where he’d gotten it. 

“Now, Crowley there must be a better way to do this…” Aziraphale started. 

As it turns out, there wasn’t a better way to do it, because both Gabe, Elle and their respective gangs were coming at them fast now. Aziraphale tightened his grip on his umbrella, attempting to wield it like some kind of sword. 

Much to the contrary of Gabe’s assumptions of boys who liked boys, Aziraphale had never actually considered just how built his former Head Boy was until the moment he was storming towards him. He wore a look of determination he hadn’t seen in the other boy since he was legally ‘requested’ to give up rugby in year 10 after the incident with Raph. Looking down at the umbrella he had no idea if he would actually use, and feeling Crowley’s vibrating presence behind him, he was struck with how outnumbered they were. 

“Crowley,” he said, hopefully quietly enough for only the other boy to hear. “Do something,” 

“What am I supposed to do?” 

“I don’t know. Something. Anything... Or-” he thought on it, looking down at the umbrella as though it held any answers. “Or I’ll never talk to you ever again,” 

There was a moment of silence from Crowley as the threat sunk in. Aziraphale, unable to see him had no idea if that was even a threat or just a very stupid thing to say in the middle of quite an important situation, when he heard a crack. 

Time stood still. Gabe stood still. Just about everyone stood still as glass rained from the sky. Except it wasn’t raining, it was exploding from the front of the Arts Building - a window (or at least what was a window and was now a security risk) was veined with cracks, and in the middle was a shape just big enough for a brick. Crowley looked at Aziraphale, paling at the consequences of the dumb thing he had just done when- 

“What on Earth?” the evening security guard clambered out of the door. “What’re you all doing?” 

Gabe was the first one to gather his senses. 

“Hello, sir,” he smiled widely. “My friends and I were just walking by when these buffoons were just causing some rather expensive looking damage to this building here. If you don’t mind I’ll just-” 

He made to waltz right past the security guard and into the building, but before he’d even taken two steps the guard threw out his arm across the doorway.

“Definitely not,” he said. “You’re going to stay here while I call the police. All of you,” 

“The police? About this? Evidently it wasn’t me. I was Head Boy at St Michael’s Trinity. It was them - goths, you know,”

Elle’s jaw dropped to the floor. 

“Us?” they yelled. “They were planning on torching the place. Look, they’ve got fire starters and everything,” 

“So do you!” Gabe yelled back in Elle’s face. 

“For smoking. We have cigarettes too,”

“You don’t start cigarettes with fire starters!” 

“We do. We’re goths, remember?” 

The yelling continued, and Aziraphale and Crowley stared on, unsure as to whether they should explain the whole thing like normal people with a handle on appropriate volumes or give them a bit of privacy. 

“Look, I’m going to need all of you to come in here and make a statement for me,” 

“Oh gladly,” Gabe yelled back at him, before realising his place and retuning to a normal volume. “Sorry, they’re very annoying. Of course, we will be very helpful,”

He even managed to make that sound threatening. 

The guard herded Gabe and Elle (who fought over who would be first to enter) and the rest of the cronies before turning to Aziraphale and Crowley like he hadn’t even noticed them before. 

“Oh hey guys,” he said with a cheerful smile. “Sorry to get you caught up in that. You need to get in?” 

“Oh yeah,” Crowley said. “Just dropping off some bits for tomorrow’s show,” 

“No baking today then?” he looked disappointed. “Could do with one of your cinnamon swirls.” He sighed. “You two have a nice evening, I’ve gotta go and deal with this whole thing,” 

“Of course,” Crowley nodded sagely. “Cheers… y’know it’s just occurred to me that I don’t actually know your name,” 

“Adam,” the security guard said. “See you ‘round!” 

———————————

They waited an hour in the Studio, just in case, but no one ever came for them. Too afraid to do anything else, they paced the room, peeked out the door, reported their findings to each other and then returned to pacing. As it turned 9, they left, doubly keen not to get locked in the building after everything that had gone down. Down in the foyer they saw Adam leading the police leading their classmates out of the building. Someone had already swept up the glass, the brick was nowhere to be found, and a wooden board covered the hole in the wall. 

Crowley wondered if anything would come of it - surely someone was going to point out he was the one that threw the brick. None of them were going to lie for him. His greatest hope was that they’d be so intent on setting each other up as the villain that his name would be forgotten. Either way, that was a problem for tomorrow.

They walked in relative silence to the tube station, both lost in their own thoughts. It was only when Crowley turned towards their usual train that Aziraphale stopped behind him. 

“Er, I’m this way,” he said gesturing to a different tube line. 

Of course, Crowley cursed himself for forgetting. 

“I’ll walk you,” he turned towards the second line, rubbing the tired from his eyes. 

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale said solemnly. 

“Oh… err - okay.” Crowley could take a hint. If Aziraphale needed time to deal or process he would give it to him - of course he would. Turning away and towards his own train, he tried not to look too put out. He didn’t want Aziraphale feeling worse on his account. Anyway, he needed food.

“Crowley?” Crowley turned to see Aziraphale stood in the same spot he’d left him. “Could I tempt you to some sushi?” 

So they boarded the train together, sat together, hands mirroring each other’s tentative to make the first move. They dined on sushi that night, and whether it was as good as the sushi eaten on their first night or not, Crowley (who hadn’t eaten in over a day) thought it was just about the best thing he’d ever eaten. With Aziraphale sat opposite him, munching happily on a California roll and reminiscing joyfully about the look on Gabe’s face when he’d told him to fuck off, it was a thousand times better than before. 

He didn’t think he could love a meal more until Aziraphale got up to use the bathroom. On his way back to the table, the young waitress who had been eyeing him since they arrived, hurried over to him.

“We close in half an hour,” she blurted out. 

“Oh, do you need us to leave?” Aziraphale looked so worried, and so blissfully ignorant to what was happening.

“Oh no,” she giggled nervously. Crowley watched the whole thing go down, intrigued. If only he had popcorn and a glass of chardonnay “I was just going to say that my shift finishes in half an hour,”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, still evidently very confused. 

“If you wanted to go out for a drink after?” she added finally. 

“Oh my dear! That’s very kind and I do apologise, but you see that dashing young man over there? The one staring right at us?” they looked in his direction. He didn’t even pretend to look away. “Well, I do rather think he’s my boyfriend,” 

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she flushed the deepest scarlet Crowley had ever seen, dropping her eyes from his in embarrassment. “Have a lovely evening,” 

When her eyes flickered back to him to see if he was still staring (he was) he shot her a little wave and a smile. Crowley couldn’t blame the girl, really he couldn’t, but he still wanted to clog the toilets or steal some cutlery or something equally menacing to teach her a lesson. 

“Ready to go?” Aziraphale said cheerfully as he returned to the table. 

They walked from the restaurant, something Crowley was normally loath to do. He lived in London so he had access to the underground and he owned a car so he could drive everywhere else. Walking wasn’t something he saw any use in. But walking with Aziraphale was nice. The city was, by some miracle, quiet and welcoming in the darkness. Aziraphale had taken him to the bookshop weeks ago, so he knew that the route he was leading them down was not the most direct one at all, but he didn’t say anything because he too wanted just one more minute, another second. 

But then there was nothing to do but arrive at the door.

“This is me,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll see you at the show tomorrow?” 

“Yep,” 

“And we’ll go out for cake after?” Crowley laughed at that.

“If you like,”

“And after that?” 

He could have said that he’d walk him home just like tonight; could have said he’d invite him back to his; could have said that the next week would be spent as wrapped up in each other as they could manage to be; could have said that in a year when he turned eighteen he’d rent out a flat of his own, could have said that he’d keep painting to pay the bills and Aziraphale would graduate, go on to university, but continue to work at the bookshop, could have said that when he graduated he’d move into that flat too, bringing his many bookshelves to liven up the near blank flat he’d complained about for years, could have said that Crowley would be the first to say I love you one day when Aziraphale put a cup of tea in front of him one morning, could have said that one day he’d inherit the bookshop, or that one day long after all of that Crowley would wake him up with a tartan flask of coffee and driven him out into the country to show him a surprise, could have said that he’d buy him a cottage in the South Downs where Crowley would get into gardening and Aziraphale would get into gossiping with the neighbours and they’d hang that first painting - the one of the angel and the demon and the apple over the fireplace; could have said they’d grow old together and that this night apart would be one of very few in the grand scheme of their lives.

Instead he said:

“And after that I’ll take you to a seedy motel and ravage you like you’re the last piece of sushi in the whole of London,” 

“I can’t wait,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Guttural screaming* I cannot believe this is finished. Oh my days. 
> 
> I'm likely going to be working on a couple of one shots in this universe so keep an eye out! 
> 
> Please do let me know if you liked it. Comments and kudos and bookmarks and everything have been my lifeblood whilst writing this and I love you guys so much. This has been the best community to be a part of - so I guess what I'm trying to say is *lifts glass* to the world. 
> 
> <3


	10. Brighton Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BONUS CHAPTER   
> \---------------
> 
> Takes place in the middle the events of Chapter 4. 
> 
> As part of their weekend meetings, Crowley and Aziraphale head to the seaside, but Brighton may add a few complications to Aziraphale's plans.

He was sat on a train, but only literally. In every other way he was already at the beach. Crowley was no longer two seats over and facing the opposite direction, perfectly positioned to allow for the meeting of eyes over their chosen reading materials (a Latin textbook and a Twitter thread on why snakes were better pets than dogs), but still so distant. The weather outside wasn’t lashing the windows, but was so warm Crowley was walking with his leather jacket draped over his shoulder. The unspoken agreement of heading to Brighton in the rain was also un-thought, because in his head they didn’t need to avoid being seen. 

Aziraphale was barely teetering on the edge of realising that the way he loved Crowley had very little to do with religion or friendship, and these day dreams were not helping.

-Ping- signalled a text coming in. Putting down the book he’d barely glanced at, he checked his phone. Crowley, obviously. 

Realised reading is boring? 

His eyes shot across the aisle of the train to see Anthony scrolling through his phone as if they were actually strangers. This illusion was sadly ruined by Aziraphale’s own face lighting up and his gaze jumping to the other boy as soon as he received any kind of hint of recognition. Before he’d even attempted to reply, his phone -pinged- again. 

You know, this whole sitting apart thing is kind of wasted if you keep looking at me. 

If it had been him sending that message, Aziraphale was sure it would be met with some kind of flirty compliment from Crowley that would have left him stammering over a response until he spared him the horror by completely changing the subject, leaving him both thankful but utterly unresolved in this thing between them. His stomach knotted at the thought. 

Reading is not boring. You might understand that if you ever picked up a book. My mind is just elsewhere. 

Where? 

The beach. Next to you. Back in London. Sat in the living room of your childhood. On our park bench. In the depths of hell. The bookshop sofa with your legs draped over mine. The passenger seat of your car. The edges of this universe, alone with you. perching on the bench of the studio watching you paint. Heaven and paradise. Leaning against the counter of the cooking room watching you devour my cooking. Four steps ahead of where I’m comfortable being. 

Here and there. 

If you’re trying to intrigue me, you’ve really overestimated how much I care. 

Alright then.

Aziraphale put down his phone knowingly and picked the book back up, but before he could even find his place on the page, the seat beside him filled with sprawling limbs. He didn’t even try to suppress the smug smile making its way on his face.

“You know, this sitting apart thing is really wasted if you’re going to give up and sit next to me,” he said dryly, eyes still focused on the blur of letters in front of him. 

“Have you always been this sarcastic or am I rubbing off on you?” Crowley said, lounging back, his arm brushing against Aziraphale’s. Before Aziraphale could even process the concept of rubbing off on him, never mind the reality of the few layers of fabric keeping them apart, he was talking again. “Anyway, we’re almost there,” 

If either boy had been asked whose idea it had been to travel down to Brighton for the day, they would have claimed innocence and blamed the other. Crowley said it was Aziraphale who had been raving about his favourite little bakery hidden amongst the hustle and bustle of the town, whereas Aziraphale would have pointed out that it was Crowley who had bought the tickets and popped them onto his desk whilst loudly claiming that it was due to be terrible weather this weekend, so one must certainly stay indoors.

“Where did you want to go first?” Aziraphale asked Crowley as they pulled into the station. 

“Don’t mind,” 

“You don’t mind?” he asked. Crowley had opinions on just about everything, especially on Aziraphale’s suggestions for places to visit on a Saturday. Museums were fine but only if they had weapons (though Aziraphale knew he loved the fashion through the ages exhibits much more than he’d let on), bookshops were limited to one a weekend, and ceramics painting was blacklisted. Crowley claiming that he didn’t mind how they spent their day was like Aziraphale saying he didn’t mind where they ate.

“Nope,”

“Well, where’s your favourite place in Brighton? Let’s start there,” 

Crowley went silent. Aziraphale shot him a glance to figure out what on Earth he could mean, and though he had been getting better at reading the forehead and chin movements of his best friend, the sunglasses made working it out much more difficult than he’d like. But Crowley wasn’t glaring at him - wasn’t even looking at him, until realisation struck him and a small “oh, my dear,” fell past his lips. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look Angel. Not all of us had parents who would take us to the beach as kids. It’s hardly a sob story. I’ll do whatever. It’s a stuffy little seaside town. Hardly my thing,” 

“So you… you have no idea what Brighton is like?” Aziraphale asked, the importance of this whole trip dropping on him like a bag of bricks. The symbolic weight of Brighton’s reputation was not lost on him, though how it had slipped his mind until hearing Anthony describe is as a ‘stuffy little seaside town’ he didn’t know. His teetering continued.

“Some kitschy little sea side town filled with retired people who are gonna look disapprovingly at me. Was looking forward to causing a ruckus,” Aziraphale nodded, tongue knotted in his mouth.

Before he could decide if he wanted to warn Crowley or ignore the whole thing completely, the train pulled up and they disembarked. They were barely out of the station before a massive poster advertising a ‘rainbow rave’ at a local gay bar appeared. Aziraphale hid a blush by pulling up his coat around his face, which he hoped wasn’t too odd considering the rain beating down on the streets. Whether Crowley noticed, he didn’t know - he just tottered off quickly down the hill towards the bakery he’d been looking forward to visiting all week.

Between the station and the bakery there were another four situations. The first was a pair of boys around their age walking together. Aziraphale instantly noticed their hands tangled. The second was the window display of a garishly pink sex shop, displaying a number of things that he was pretty sure you’d need Olympic training to use. The third sent Aziraphale into a fit of choking when Crowley commented “obsessed with rainbows, here, eh? You okay?”, but at least he could blame the shade of red he had turned on the inexplicable coughing fit. The forth and final incident happened in the doorway of the bakery as Crowley was ushering him in to get some water, when two elderly women embraced beside the in quite the intimate goodbye kiss before making their way in opposite directions. 

Aziraphale spluttered as he pushed the door open with the clattering of a bell. At this point even he didn’t think he was being subtle with the intensity at which he was avoiding Crowley’s eyes by staring determinedly into the case, as if he hadn’t decided what he was ordering three days ago when Crowley had given him the tickets. Crowley simply ordered a black coffee and took his seat as though nothing was amiss. Maybe nothing was amiss. Maybe he was reading too much into it all.

Only, it’s really difficult to avoid thinking about things when those things are everywhere around you. 

Of course, Aziraphale had seen couples holding hands, and couples kissing. Some of them had even been gay. He lived in London after all. It was just… here was that place he’d been dreaming of: a place where it was not only acknowledged but celebrated. As though love of all kinds really could be allowed. 

“So,” Crowley said pointedly as Aziraphale joined him at the table, arms full of treats and head full of thoughts. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?” 

“My…? Crowley!” Aziraphale huffed. It was hard to stay mad with an almond pastry and wonderful cup of tea though. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and he was starving. 

“It’s a saying,” Crowley said with the tone of voice of someone rolling their eyes.

“I don’t know how you deal with those awful things in this weather. You need wipers on them just to see anything,” 

“I like them,” he shrugged. 

“Well I don’t. You have lovely eyes and frankly-” they both stopped. It wasn’t the first time they’d been frozen in time by something like this. Both were tentative to break the moment and both were tentative to move forwards. “Do you want some cake? The red velvet is divine,” 

———

Aziraphale was acting weird, and Crowley didn’t like it. He’d been excited about the idea of the trip to the beach all week, but now he was rushing from place to place as if the sky was going to fall down and bash them on the head. Crowley knew enough about him to recognise that something had happened, but this marathon training was getting on his nerves.

“Slow down,” he complained, not for the first time. The rain had eased slightly, and Aziraphale was leading Crowley to what was apparently quite a brilliant bookshop. He was going along with it because they’d settled on one per weekend, but it was ridiculously hard to keep up a cool persona when you were sprinting from place to place, especially when that destination was a second hand bookshop. 

Aziraphale slowed, eyes pointing directly at the sky and a blush firmly set in his cheeks. Of course, that could have been from all of the running around, but Crowley didn’t think so.

“Out with it,” he said as they started walking. “Why are you avoiding looking at me?”

Aziraphale fidgeted in the same was he did when he was about to get all indignant and lie. 

“I don’t -” 

“Cut the crap,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “What, is it all the sex shops? Going all weird and Christian on me Angel? People have sex, people put stuff in places God never imaged that stuff going. It’s fine. No judgments,” 

“No,” Aziraphale stuttered through pursed lips, meaning it was only slightly true.

“So what, all the vegan cakes insulting your culinary tour? The pile of rocks masquerading as a beach? The weirdly high density of gay couples around here,” Aziraphale’s blush turned into a forest fire. “Ah there we go,” 

“It’s not -” but what it was or wasn’t, Crowley never found out.

“Aziraphale, Anthony,” another voice entered the fray. For a moment, Crowley’s heart dropped to his stomach, trying to think of a lie that would get Gabe off of Aziraphale’s back until he registered a feminine voice and an American accent. 

They turned to see Ana, the girl who sat at the back of their Philosophy and Ancient Religion class. She was wearing multiple layers that Crowley couldn’t help but wonder how she kept those long skirts dry in this weather, and despite the lack of umbrella or hood she looked remarkably dry. Witchcraft, he thought dully as he twisted uncomfortably in his sodden skinny jeans.

“Ana,” Aziraphale said in his most cordial tone. “Fancy seeing you here,” 

“Yes, well. Brighton is the LGBT capital of Europe after all, so it has all the best community groups,” she said with a knowing stare at Crowley. “And in any case, my spiritual guide has stopped making house visits to London. All those buses are bad for her chi, you know?” 

“Sure,” said Aziraphale with the tone of someone who definitely didn’t know and certainly didn’t care. It was either his good Christian upbringing or a desperate urge to move away from this encounter unscathed that kept the tense smile on his face. Crowley, meanwhile, was very interested in what she had to say, but before he could compose himself into asking what on Earth she was talking about, she was turning away.

“Well, lovely seeing you boys but I’ve been warned against dawdling. Enjoy your day,” and then she skipped off into a shop that smelled like incense and sold nothing but hand crafted wooden bowls. 

She was barely past the threshold before Crowley couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

“Gay capital of Europe, is it?” he hissed incredulously. “Didn’t mention that one when you were listing your little bakeries,” 

“I thought you would have known!” 

“Being gay doesn’t immediately get you a subscription to Gay Day Trips magazine, Angel!” he rolled his eyes. “How do you know anyway?”

“Everyone knows! It’s Brighton’s whole thing. It’s er, actually why mum and dad stopped bringing us here. Thought it was best to avoid being exposed to that kind of thing…” 

And he looked so lost when he said it that all the incredulity within him shattered. He wasn’t mad, he’d never been mad, but it was just so difficult navigating this thing between them. There were times when he was certain the other boy was just waiting for him to breach that distance and other times where he felt walls growing like thorns between them, and inadvertently deciding to take him to the gay capital of Europe and then not looking him in the eye was what definitely Crowley would describe as mixed signals. 

“Where’s this bloody bookshop then?” he sighed, nudging into Aziraphale as he set back off down the street. 

————

As dismissive as he’d been of the whole ‘Gay Day Trips’ thing, Aziraphale could tell Crowley was intrigued by it all now that Ana had broken the news. They lunched in a little whole food cafe, their table right in the window where they were free to people watch without fear of being seen themselves. Aziraphale was more interested in watching Crowley people watch, however. At this proximity he could see his eyes underneath the sunglasses, flicking back and forth as he watched couple after couple. When he finally turned his attention back to Aziraphale, his mouth fell into a lazy smile which Aziraphale couldn’t help but return. 

Neither boy really felt the need to speak. Crowley sipped his coffee, Aziraphale finished off his cake, and if their gaze held a second longer than normal then that was just the lethargy of the day. And if, in the labyrinth of an antiques and oddities shop their hands brushed as Aziraphale adjusted some Roman-style sunglasses on Crowley’s nose, then the tingling left on their hands was nothing but a reaction to the cold. 

Years later, when they would return to Brighton to attend the opening of an art show, Aziraphale would recall the way he’d watched Crowley’s fingers dancing as they tapped on the cafe table, praying for the strength to either take his hand or stop wanting to completely. They’d trace their steps from bakery to bookshop to beach once more. They’d lose their 2 pence pieces in a decades old Angry Birds themed arcade machine. They’d kiss beneath the pier, not because they were hiding, but because it was the only spot of shade, and that evening, they would stand out in front of the sun setting over the ocean and one of them (though neither would admit that it was them) would suggest that maybe it was time for them to get married. 

But for now, Aziraphale watched Crowley watching a world he longed to be a part of, staring as those restless fingers removed the blasted sunglasses and set them to the table. He watched as Crowley turned his naked eyes on him, lips parting as he tongue flicked between them. He was sat in a cafe, but only literally. In every other way he was teetering on the edge of a cliff named Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back? 
> 
> I just want to say that I'm so blown away by the amount of people who have read and Kudos'd and commented on this fic. When I first started I was hoping to get like 100 hits, and having the community that we have here has been a joy. As an aspiring writer, your guys' response has given me so much confidence so thank you! 
> 
> Also, if you haven't been to Brighton, you should because it's awesome.


End file.
